Suicide Kings
by LilLolaBlue
Summary: Prequel to "Joke's On Me" Helen & Paris. Romeo & Juliet. Liv & Eddie? Join the Comedian & the Harlequin for a tale of lust, rage, sex, ultraviolence , and... true love? Remember, everybody has a heart, even if it is black as midnight in a coal mine.
1. Play With Fire

**SUICIDE KINGS**

**Prelude: Play With Fire**

**Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, 1960**

**I: Liv**

Liv Napier opened the basement window of Paulie's house and crawled in.

She looked both ways, and then, breathing hard, darted under the basement stairs.

Finally, she felt safe.

She was in a lot of pain, where that pusher kid had stabbed her, but she wasn't bleeding a lot.

Not a whole lot.

Not enough to die in the next few minutes.

Or half-hour or so.

She knew she'd have to go to the doctor, but right now she was scared and she needed to hide and try and think of what to do next.

Somebody was going to call the cops.

You couldn't just smash a guy with a brick and leave him lying there and nobody would call the cops.

But he had hurt her, and tried to hurt Laurie and Paulie, and she had to do something.

He had a knife.

Just like the man who came up to her and Uncle Mac in the car had a gun.

Daddy said that because of him that violence would follow her everywhere. Pop told her she shouldn't be cruel, and she should never attack without reason, but if someone was going to hurt her, or someone she was close to, she had to defend herself, and only to use serious force or serious harm as a last resort.

Maybe, though, the cops would find out who her daddy was, and they'd take her away, figuring she was too much like him.

If they put her in the bughouse with Daddy, it wouldn't be so bad, but what if they put her in there, alone?

And she had only been living with her new stepfather about six months. She didn't want to go to a home, and she knew that Uncle Mac and Aunt Marge still didn't have the money to take care of her, and the courts wouldn't let them, they weren't really related, and they had never legally adopted her.

They gave her to Mr. Wayne.

Bruce.

Pop.

Pop might get mad if he found out what she did.

Maybe he wouldn't want her, anymore, either.

Then, maybe she could stay with Laurie and Sally, or maybe Paulie and his family.

She didn't want to have to go to a home, daddy grew up in a home and he told her they did awful things to you there, that she'd go to a place like that over his dead body and a pile of others.

Liv hated to cry, but she couldn't keep the tears from rolling down her face.

She was in pain, and bleeding and cold and scared.

Scared she might bleed to death in Paulie's basement, scared she was going to have to leave her new stepdad and her brother and the home she had just got used to.

Liv didn't like being scared.

She had learned to be tough so she didn't have to be scared, and thinking about being tough, it made her feel better.

Whatever was going to happen, she could take it, and she would make it.

Blood was welling out from under Liv's hand, down over her fingers and down her arm from her shoulder, and blood was trickling down her leg, as well.

I'm only scared because I've never been stabbed before. Next time I won't be scared. Next time I'll be older, I'll be grown up and a superhero like Sally and Pop, and I won't have to be scared.

She knew a little first-aid, Pop and Sally, as part of her superhero training, had taught her a little first aid.

She took off her shirt and took out her pocketknife and cut it into a couple of strips, to make bandages.

She had lost her coat and it was cold in the basement, in just her undershirt, but maybe the cold would stop her bleeding and keep her awake.

Until it was safe to come out.

Until she could figure out what to do.

**II: Eddie**

"So, Ivan's workin', now?"

"Yeah. He's back on the garbage truck after that salvage job at the docks finished up. You know Ivan. He'll work long enough to get unemployment, and then he'll be here again, coming up with a way to get one some other kinda government gravy train, an' get more food stamps." Edie reported.

Eddie laughed.

"When it comes ta gettin' over, Ivan's a genius."

"You would say that, Eddie. And Paulie's gonna be just like the both of you, I can tell, already."

"Awww, let him fuck around a little. You don't work for wages, either, do ya?"

Just like when he was living there with their younger brothers and sisters, the kitchen was Grand Central Station, the door banging open and closed, this time with the next generation of Blakes going in and out.

WHAM!

"Ma! Ma! We got into a fight at the playground, a big fight and this older kid, he stabbed Liv! Stabbed her with a knife! She ran away! And and he's lyin' there and I think he's like, dead and shit and we gotta call Mr. Wayne and you shoulda seen all the blood it was everywhere goddamn look I got blood all over me, Jesus, Uncle Eddie, lookit, lookit alla blood!"

Paulie, like a lot of the members of his family, was proud, headstrong, and an outcast, and he spent much of his time with kids who fit that mould, including his cousin, Laurie Juspeczyk, and Laurie's mother's youngest mask trainee, Trivelino "Liv" Napier.

At the tender age of 11, Liv was a smart, pretty little red-haired girl in pigtails, Keds and pegged Levis with a thousand- watt smile and a cheerful, sunny personality. On the other hand, when she got mad, she was about four feet and eight inches and sixty pounds of fury and hellfire that could cause, and take a lot more damage than you might think.

And Paulie was bloodied up pretty bad.

Still, Paulie was a real bullshit artist, another Blake family trait, so Eddie was withholding judgment.

Laurie who was also 11, came in next, blood dripping out of her nose and a shiner forming over her eye.

"I'm sorry Miz Blake, but you gotta hide me! The cops are after me!"

"Go in the basement. Nobody will find youse in the basement!" Paulie suggested.

"Oh my God, Laurie, honey, look at you! I'm gonna call your mother, what happened to you? Eddie, look after her. And Paulie. Get them cleaned up. And where the hell is Liv? Oh My God, she got stabbed, I have to call Mr. Wayne, too." Edie exclaimed.

They all heard a siren coming up the street.

Eddie stood up and Paulie and Laurie immediately hid behind him, and they weren't the kind of kids who got spooked about anything.

They must have been telling the truth.

That was enough for him.

He put his arms around their shoulders and Laurie grabbed onto his hand.

"Son of a bitch! Edie, let Aggie make phone calls. She can't stand the sight of blood. Paulie, go with your mother. She'll clean you up. You too, Laurie. I'll handle the cops."

Laurie wouldn't let go of him.

"But that jerkoff pusher kid, he stabbed Liv! She ran away, and I don't know where she is! You gotta help us! Your Ma's boyfriend, right? I ain't got a father, so you better do something!" Laurie told him.

Talk about shots to the heart.

"Honey, I am gonna do something, but not with you hangin' onto my leg. Let Edie clean you up. I'll talk to the cops, and then I'll find Liv. Alright?"

"Alright. But if she's dead, I'm gonna kill that kid."

The police came to the house and Eddie met them in the doorway, almost filling it.

Big and glowering.

It was his youngest brother, Mickey, his partner was still in the car

"What the fuck, Mickey? What's goin' on in our neighbourhood?"

"You know how it is, Eddie. You take five of em off the street, these punks, there's ten more the next day. When I heard the call was to the old house, I took it. What the hell's going on here, Eddie? I got some troublemakin' punk who ain't from the neighbourhood lyin' out in front of the sidewalk by the park with three teeth knocked out and his head cracked open. He's about 15, 16, been trying to sell reefers down at the park. He's bleedin' all over the place and the only witness I got says he saw my nephew runnnin' away from the scene. That's it. You tell me what the fuck is going on."

"I'll tellya what. He fuckin' beat on two little girls, one of whom is mine. I'll kill the cocksucker! He fuckin' stabbed a little girl eleven years old and beat her up. Paulie's friend, Liv."

"That little girl Mac usedta take care of? Liv Napier, Crazy Jack's kid? Why would he do that? Is he fuckin' suicidal?"

"I know the kid. She probably tried to run him off the playground."

"Wait. You're telling me a little girl splattered his teeth all over the sidewalk and smashed his head in with a brick after he stabbed her a coupla times because she was trying to run him out of the park?"

"Yeah. Her and Laurie, they're pretty territorial about that park, and nobody can tell 'em they ain't goddamn Batman, yet."

"Jesus! Are they here?"

"Paulie and my kid are. Nobody knows where Liv is. She's holed up someplace, scare outa her wits an' bleedin' to death. Just get that prick off the street and put him in your car. I'm gonna take care of this asshole. You understand me, Mickey?"

"Sure I do, Eddie. Sure. We could use the help. In the meantime, I'm gonna go look for the little girl."

Eddie had an idea of his own where the kid could be hiding.

It was a long shot, but this had been his house for years and he knew the best place in it for kids to hide; he had raised two brothers and two sisters in this house.

Eddie went down into the basement, just with a flashlight, and closed the door behind him.

He didn't want to scare her.

The Comedian could see blood by the window, and blood on the floor, and he clicked off the flashlight and walked over to the little crawlspace under the stairs, and sat down on the floor in front of it.

"You in there, Liv? C'mon, kid, I know you're in there. You can't stay in there. You're hurt. You gotta go to the doctor's with your Pop."

"Izzat you, Mr. Blake? Youse alone?"

She sounded like she was using up all her tough to get over the scared.

"Yeah. And I'm alone, kid."

"I can't come out. The cops are after me."

"You wanna tell me why?"

"Can't. That would be squealing. An' I ain't no rat."

"That's okay, kid. You can tell me. I ain't no cop. I'm a mask, like your stepdad. Like Sal. Like you and Laurie are gonna be someday. I'll take care of it. No cops. No questions."

"You're a mask? Really?"

"Yeah, kid. I swear."

"Swear in blood?"

Eddie pricked his finger on a nail sticking out from under the stairs, and held his hand out under them.

"Yeah. I swear in blood."

A suspicious little hand darted over his, and felt for the drops of blood.

A suspicious little hand that was slick with blood.

Jesus, the kid was hurt real bad.

"Which one?"

"I'm the Comedian."

"No shit?" Liv asked.

"I swear, kid. No shit."

"Oh. Okay. Sally says you're okay. So does my Pop. Don't worry, I won't tell anybody. I swear in blood. You got it all over your hand, already. Okay. This guy, he's a real asshole. He sells pills and reefers an' shit, and I didn't care when he did it outside, but when he came in my park, I warned him to get lost. He didn't listen, so last week, me and Laurie, we followed him at night and we jumped him on his bike and beat him up with stacks of dimes in our fists. He came back after us with a knife. I got out in front of Paulie and Laurie. It's okay, I wasn't afraid. I been shot, I figured bein' stabbed wouldn't be so bad after gettin' shot. I was wrong. I think it's worse. It hurts more. He stabbed me a coupla times while I was fighting him, then we all started fighting him and he dropped the knife and he hit Laurie and Paulie and I saw this brick, so I picked it up and hit him with it a coupla times and ran away. He's dead, but I don't care. He was trying to kill us, wasn't he? Fuck'm."

"In the first place, kid, he ain't dead. In the second place, you ain't a Junior G-Man. From now on, you tell your Pop, or Sal, or me, or a cop if somethin' like that happens."

"Why? Laurie and me are gonna be superheroes when we grow up, and it's our park." Liv said.

"Because you ain't grown up yet. What if he had a gun?"

The kid stuck her leg out and pulled up her pants leg, and she had a holster strapped to her leg with a snub-nosed .45 in it.

"Daddy said I should never, ever take this gun off. Ever."

"You know what, kid? That was good advice. But you gotta ease up on this killin' people shit. That guy who shot at you, fine. And the guy with the knife, it woulda been okay to shoot him, too. And it was okay to hit him with the brick. But if somebody ain't comin' at you with a knife or a gun or a brick, if they ain't gonna kill you. you don't even try to kill 'em. That's' what you got fists for. And if you can't take him or there's too many of them, you gotta run away. And get help. And that goes for when you're grown up, too. Alright?"

"Okay. I know that. Pop told me."

"You gonna come out now? I'll bet your Pop's up there, waitin' for you."

"He won't be mad, an' send me to an orphans home?"

"No. You did the right thing. You got nothin' to be scared of."

"You sure?"

"I'm sure."

The kid didn't say anything for awahile.

"Well, okay. I guess I trust youse."

The poor little kid came out, and she was all dirty and bloody and shivering, but if she was scared, she was trying not to look it.

She had ripped up her shirt to make bandages, and she was dragging her leg, shivering and freezing, and Eddie took off his shirt and wrapped her in it and picked her up.

She hung onto him like she didn't want to ever let go.

He carried her upstairs and when they got to the top, Eddie opened the door.

"…he's looking for her, Mr. Wayne. I'm sure he'll find her." He heard Edie saying.

There was Wayne, in his suit and his expensive camel-hair overcoat, looking about as upset as any man who found out his little girl had been stabbed and was missing.

"I found her, Bruce. She was hiding in the basement. From the cops. The son of a bitch stabbed her in her leg, in her shoulder, scratched up her arms. She can't walk."

Eddie handed Liv over to her stepdad.

"Oh My God, My God! Trivelino, what were you thinking? You could have bled to death down there!"

"I didn't want the cops to get me. I was scared."

"From now on, if you get into trouble, you tell me about it. Or Sally. Or Mr. Blake. You're not old enough to handle these things yourselves. Don't worry about the police getting you. You're not your father, they're not after you."

"Are you gonna send me to a home, Pop?"

"What? No! Liv, honey, I am never going to send you to a home. No matter what. You're a good girl. This wasn't your fault. Those places are not for girls like you. Now, we're going to go to the hospital, and they'll fix you up. And then I'll see about this."

"Don't worry about the guy who did this, Bruce. You take are of your kid. He beat Laurie up, too. I'm going to take care of him." The Comedian promised.

"Permanently?" Batman asked.

"Permanently."

"Good."

The Bat left in a hurry with his little girl, and Eddie found Laurie and Paulie, all patched up sitting at the kitchen table.

Sally was there with them.

When she saw Eddie, she got up.

"Laurie, you stay here with Edie. I have work to do."

Eddie went out to his car, got his costume, and put it on.

Sally had hers on under her overcoat.

"Sally, I'm not takin' this guy to the authorities."

"Yeah, Eddie, I figured that."

They walked over to the park, where Mickey and his partner were detaining the punk in question.

"Here he is now. The nice man we told you about who doesn't like punks that push dope to children and beat up little girls. And this is his friend. They've been waiting to meet you," the other cop said.

"No! No, don't turn me over to him! To her, either! I got rights! No! No, don't!"

"You stabbed my student, and beat up my little girl. You ain't got shit, asshole." Sally told him.

The older policeman, an Italian guy, shoved the punk kid towards Eddie and Sally and got in the cop car.

"Come on, Mickey. We're done here. Let's go have lunch."

"Sounds good to me, Al." Mickey said.

The police car drove away.

"What are you two gonna to do me?"

"Us? Nothin'. But, that girl you stabbed? That was Jack Napier's daughter. An' I can't say what he's gonna do to you, but trust me, when he's done, you're gonna wish it had been me and not him."

The punk made a lot of noise, and Eddie didn't want to hear it, so he cracked the asshole in the head, again, and threw him in the trunk.

He was still making noise, so Sally gave him another smack, and that knocked him out.

They got in the car and drove down to the docks, to make a delivery.

Sally waited in the car while Eddie went to see his old friend.

"Stabbed her? In the park? What the hell is this world coming to when kids can't play in the park without some idiot lunatic maniac trying to push dope? That's who you superheroes should be chasing after, not guys like me!" the Joker sniffed.

"Whole city's goin' crazy, Jack. I do my best, and your buddy the Bat, he does street work, but you know how it is. Nobody wants the dirty jobs. An' in my neighbourhood too. So I got work to do. I can't have this fuckin' shit goin on in my neighbourhood."

"Well, my little girl plays in that park, too. Tell you what, Eddie. I'll find out if this punk and whoever he's with are connected to anybody of consequence. If they aren't, then you can take care of all of them. As for this one, his friends are going to be finding pieces of him, everywhere. They'll get the message. I'll go see Livvie in the hospital tonight, after visiting hours. I'll be in touch."

"Yeah. I'll be ready."

Eddie went back to his car and he and Sally drove back to Bensonhurst.

"If something's going on, Eddie, I want to know about it."

"You're retired, Sal."

"My kid spends a lot of time in that neighbourhood. The costume still fits me, doesn't it?"

"Fair enough. When it's time for somethin' ta happen, I'll let youse know."

They were both quiet for awhile.

"You busy, tonight, Eddie?"

"I was. I ain't now."

"Well, how about you come over around eleven? Laurie will be in bed by then."

"Sounds good, Sal. I'll be there."

**New York City, 1966**

**I: Laurie**

One thing Laurie knew, if you looked up, "Out of fucking control" in the dictionary, there would be her friend Liv Napier's picture.

In her blood-spattered Harlequin costume of a chequered, particolor boiler suit and jump boots, with a gun in one hand, a bottle in the other, a cigarette in the middle of her grin and a black eye.

She said she'd painted up the boiler suit to look more like an old-fashioned Harlequin, but couldn't fool Laurie. Liv painted up the boiler suit to hide the blood and motor oil; not to mention the come-stains from her various conquests.

Liv was fucking brilliant, she was sixteen and in her sophomore year of college and, like Laurie, her freshman year of being a superhero, and everybody was so busy noticing her accomplishments that they failed to notice that she spent all of her free time fucking, drinking, fighting and driving too fast, in that order.

She still trained with Laurie's mother, and Sally seemed to be confused that Liv, who wore men's GI-issue fatigue underwear and had not worn a dress since she was three was not a lesbian, but so were the men Liv hit on.

That was because Sally had never seen Liv in action looking for some action.

Good old Napalm, she was in the double-digits, already.

She could pick up either an angel-faced recently Midwestern hippie kid or a tough old buzzard with an anchor tattooed on his arm and a bad attitude in a bar and fuck them in her car and be back for another drink inside of fifteen minutes.

Which was the least disgusting of Liv's hobbies.

The most disgusting was her truly disconcerting habit of buying cheap, dirty superhero fuckbooks and comix, and leering about how much time she spent jacking off to them when she got the urge.

There was something incredibly perverse about a masked hero who was the daughter of a supervillian and the step-daughter of another masked hero buying that cheap shit made for horny housewives and slavering teenagers and getting off on it, even though she knew most of the men featured therein, and what they were really like.

Maybe she figured none of them would actually fuck her, maybe she was too lazy to try, and she'd rather just open a book and unzip her fly.

It wasn't like Liv had ever been good and decent and clean.

Laurie had always known Liv and she had never been anything but a crazy tomboy outcast. She still swore like a pirate, smoked like a chimney, and got into fights. And when she thought she had what was right on her side, forget it. She had a great sense of humour, and she was smart as hell, and when Liv Napier was your friend, that was it, she would take a fucking bullet for you, even when she was seven.

Liv was a good friend. In spite of everything, she was a decent person; she went to places no other mask would go to help people no other mask would touch; she did the dirty work because she was hard enough and tough enough to do it. Her good side was as good as gold, but her bad side was worse, and the older she got the worse it got.

She'd started drinking when she was eleven, and she was a habitual drinker by the time she was 13 and discovered that boys were good for something other than beating on. And whatever it was, the conjunction of booze and sex and puberty meeting up with the general craziness that was Liv Napier, and she just kept getting crazier and crazier, until here she was.

And because Liv did well in school, very well, and she showed up for her job and for her classes and did her mask work, no matter what, nobody older really knew just how out of fucking control she was.

Now she was tying up the can after they were done training, and Laurie had an idea of what, and it wasn't funny, because she really had to piss.

"Liv? Liv, what the hell are you doing in there? I gotta pee, goddamnit!"

"I'm almost done. Wait a minute, Lar. I'm all keyed up from trainin'. I gotta blow off some steam, here, so I don't get into a fight at the movie with the first asshole who talks to the screen and eats his popcorn too loudly."

"Doing what…Oh my God!"

"Hey! Close the fucking door, will you! Christ!"

Laurie knew that her good as gold friend Liv was also a mean, bad woman who never did any man any good, but to discover her sitting on the john with her pants on and her fly open with her hand tattooed with a death's head and cross-bones stuffed down her motor-oil and blood flecked Levi's, getting herself off to a fuckbook about the Comedian?

They knew the Comedian.

He was Paulie's uncle, he was around, sometimes.

He'd been around, sometimes, since they were little kids.

He was Laurie's mother's off again, on again boyfriend, for Christ's sake.

And Liv, she called him Mr. Blake.

And she had a Comedian fuckbook?

That was beyond gross.

It was criminal.

"You're a sick woman, Liv! Jesus, what is the matter with you? I mean you never go more than three days without screwing somebody and usually anybody and you still spend more time fucking playing with yourself than anybody in the fucking world! You are so fucked up! I'm going upstairs to use my Mom's bathroom! Do not leave that thing here. I don't want her to see it!"

Laurie slammed the door and crashed upstairs.

"Oh my God, what the hell is the matter with Liv? She's down there reading a goddamn superhero fuckbook about the Comedian, of all people, and goddamn playing with herself! In the goddamn bathroom! And, meanwhile, she's always balling somebody! Anybody! What is the matter with that girl?"

Hollis Mason's jaw was working, of that he was aware, it was just that he couldn't make any words come out of his mouth.

"She just hasn't found the right guy." Sally volunteered.

"The right guy! The right guy? You mean the right two or three guys! Mom, you have no idea."

"Maybe, honey. It takes all sorts to make a world." Sally told her.

Liv came upstairs, rolling the comic book into a cylinder and sticking it in her jacket pocket.

"Hiya, Mr. Mason."

"Hello, Liv,"

"So, you ready to go, Lar?" she asked Laurie.

"Did you wash your goddamn hands? I'm not getting in your car if you didn't wash your goddamn hands."

"Sure I did." Liv said.

The two girls left to go to the movies.

Sally looked at the look on Hollis' face, and started to laugh.

"Are you alright, Hollis?"

"You know, I often wonder the same thing about Liv. She started coming to my garage to work on her cars when she was about 14, and it was cute, then, her in overalls, smoking, swearing like a pirate, and sneaking around with Joe Mac, getting into schoolyard fistfights and sneaking beers. It's not cute anymore. She comes in beat all to hell, and drunk, at all hours of the night; I have to get out of bed and take the tools out of her hand and pretend I don't see the evidence of whoever the last tough guy old enough to be her father all over the front of her coveralls, next to the blood and motor oil. What the hell is the matter with that girl?"

Sally waved her hand, dismissively.

"Awww, she's young, she's a little wild, she's too smart for her own good and she's a superhero. With a whole lot of money. She'll settle down, eventually. I did."

"Sally, you were never that wild."

"Hollis, honey, you don't know the half of it."

***

The first place they went was to a bar in Bensonhurst, not Trivelino Mac's, another bar, where Liv bought a case of beer, out in the back, from some guys her father knew.

Then they went to Paulie's house, and Liv just blew the horn.

Paulie was another crazy motherfucker. They called him Crazy Paulie in the neighbourhood, that was his name.

He grew his hair all the way down to the middle of his back; he sued FDR High in the fucking federal court for his right not to cut it, or the long Rasputin beard that he sometimes grew to the pint where he braided it.

Paulie had a tattoo on his chest that said "Live Freaky, Die Freaky", but considering that he was over six foot and close to 200 pounds and just 16, people left him alone.

He got in the car in his usual uniform of jeans, sneakers and one of his Uncle Eddie's castoof welder's jackets and Liv peeled out in a blaze of glory.

"You wanna beer, Paulie?" she asked

"Not just yet, Naplam."

That was the name her roomie at NYU, Jean Grey, from the X-Institue gave Liv, and it suited her right down to the bones.

"Well, I'm havin' another."

She reached into the back seat, cracked another can of Newcastle Brown, tossed the empty out the window and kept flooring it.

They were going to the drive-in.

After the second movie, Laurie and Paulie went to get some more food, and Liv went looking for some action.

She brought some guy to the car, and Paulie moved into the front seat with Laurie while Liv balled this dude in the back, and then she gave him a can of beer and sent him on his way.

"You wanna 'nother beer, Paulie? How bout you, Lar?"

"One more." Paulie said.

"I'm cool." Laurie replied.

Liv tossed them a couple more beers, anyway, so Paulie and Laurie split one.

Paulie fell asleep, during the third movie, and he was still asleep when Liv drove him home, another beer in the fork of her crotch, whiskey bottle in the glove compartment.

They dropped Paulie off, and Liv headed for Manhattan.

"Where are you going after you drop me off, Liv?" Laurie asked.

Liv handed her the whiskey bottle and Laurie put it back in the glove compartment.

"I gotta work tomorrow at nine, then I got class. I can't go back to the dorm, they fuckin' tossed me and I ain't told Pop, yet. I'm gonna go crash at my flop over Trivelino' Mac's."

"Tossed you outa college!"

"Naah. They tossed me outa the dorm."

"Hey, Liv, you're pretty drunk, and it's close to two. Why don't you stay here, tonight? I'm sure Ma wouldn't mind."

"Really? Thanks, Lar."

"Somebody hasta look after your crazy ass."

**II: Sally**

Life is a funny thing.

That was what was on Sally's mind, standing outside the building where Captain Metropolis was holding a meeting for the old gang and their successors, among them Laurie, attending her first meeting as a mask, until she got a load of Eddie, strutting in the door.

She heard the whistle and low hiss she was thinking come for directly beside her.

"Fuck me! Did you see that, Sally? I mean, did you see that? I need a fucking towel, hell I need a roll of fucking towels!"

"You mean Eddie? You've known Eddie your whole life!" Sally exclaimed.

All these years and she knew just what Liv was talking about.

"Yeah, but I never saw him in his costume before. And I'm all grown up now, ain't I? There it is, man! That is fuckin' it, that is Grade A motherfuckin' prime beef! Baby, where have you been all my life? You know I seen him about a zillion times, growin' up, but never in his costume. Shit! Lookit him, Sally. Lookit that big, mean, evil son-of-a-bitch. I wish that cocksucker up in the Bronx hadn't gut-shot my ass the other day, I'd have my legs around that mean motherfucker so fast and I'll be damned if I let him go while he had one drop of spunk left in his ten gallon balls. Shit. God- _damn_!"

That commentary came from Liv Napier, out of bed and in her costume two days after taking a bullet to the guts and walking a mile to the nearest hospital for treatment.

The Harlequin emitted something that was between a low chuckle and an animal growl, licked her lips, and clenched and unclenched her fists a few times.

"Shouldn't you be in bed?"

"Fuck, I don't need a goddamn bed. A wall will do." Liv snarled.

"Yeah. I know what you mean." Sally admitted.

Then she shook her head, as if she thought she was crazy.

Liv had that look on her face, that crazy look she got before she was about to do something awful.

Sally couldn't help but smile.

Be careful what you wish for, Eddie, because here she is.

"What if he didn't want you?"

Liv didn't hesitate before pulling one of her guns, and she smiled at Sally with wild, hard eyes glittering with insistent lust.

"In that case, I hope he likes it rough. He's lucky I'm hurtin'. Hell, what the fuck do I care if he doesn't want me? I'm the Harlequin, I take what I want. I'll sit on his cock and hold a gun to his head. Damn, I don't know what the fuck this is, this funny fuckin' feelin', and I don't know why I'm havin' it for a guy I've known all my life, but, fuck me, I'd do it, I really fuckin' would." She said.

And she meant it.

Sally couldn't help it, they both started to laugh.

**III: Eddie**

All the Comedian could think of the whole time he sat waiting for the meeting to start was "Round up the usual suspects."

They were all there.

Ozzy, smug and sanctimonious with an armload of charts, never missing a fucking opportunity to let you know he was smarter than you were.

The Boy Scout, looking earnest and nervous in his Saturday morning serial costume, and his buddy the Inkblot, who was probably the only one who had any sense.

And the Doc, with his poker face on.

He probably just wanted to go home and screw his old lady.

The Doc was funny that way.

He didn't give two shits about the material world, unless it came to fucking, and then, boy, was he interested.

She wasn't too bad, Eddie wouldn't have mind screwing her.

Hell, sitting on the couch drinking a beer and jacking off would have been better than wasting his evening with this shit.

And that old queer Metropolis, Nelly was a good name for him, he'd been bending over for that sado Nazi commie perv Hooded Justice for so long.

It was his little girl's first meeting as a superhero, though, and Laurie looked pretty and nervous and sweet with her makeup perfect and her hair pulled back in her shiny yellow and black costume that Eddie didn't like too goddamn much.

What the hell was Sally thinking? The kid looked like she was going to a sex show, not a street fight.

And what the fuck did Manhattan think he was staring at?

But she looked so excited to finally be doing her job it made the Comedian feel bad she was about to see what a big fucking joke it all was.

Ozzy and Nelly had their little display all set up, and Ozzy was about to begin his droning on, but they were interrupted by the door opening.

"Sorry I'm late. I took a fuckin' bullet in the guts a coupla days ago an' it was a real bitch tryna get my costume on."

The announcement in the contralto Brooklyn fuck you accent was followed by a rather spine tingling whiskey giggle that Eddie recognised.

When he lowered his paper he saw it was the Harlequin, Liv Napier, Laurie and Paulie's friend.

Out of the mask they called her Napalm, and she was a pretty wild kid.

Always had been.

Hell, she killed a man in self-defence when she was 11, and he had to tell her then to tone down her act.

Edie was always talking about her and so was Sal.

Liv did this, Liv did that, Liv's out of control. Paulie was almost in awe of her.

What did they expect?

Just because she was smart, and she was some kind of fucking genius and she wasn't falling apart, that didn't mean she wasn't going to go wild.

Eddie could tell when she was a little girl she was wild.

And nobody told the kid that it was teenage boys who were supposed to go through a phase where all they wanted to do was drink, fight, screw and tinker with cars, and if they had, she probably would have pulped their face.

In the costume, though, she looked less like the outcast version of your typical street tough out of Brooklyn, and more like a serious mask.

And she was a little crazier than you might expect.

For one thing, she was a little drunk, that kind of a little drunk that drunks were when the were as close to sober as they got, and if she was that much of a fuckin' drunk at 16, that was no good.

But the kid saw a lot of action. Unlike Laurie, it was obvious her costume, of coveralls and jump boots, although they were painted up like a jester's were not for show, they were for working.

You could tell by the two shoulder-holstered .45 autos and the machete strapped across her back that she meant business.

Even through the bright colors Eddie could see blood on them, and the kid had bullets hanging from her jester's cowl instead of bells.

Nice touch.

As the tough little broad strutted across the room, she passed behind his chair and she "bumped" into him, rubbing her sizeable tits across his back.

Where the hell did that come from in a kid that had been calling him "Mr. Blake" for the past sixteen years?

But, he wasn't her father, he was just her friend's uncle, it wasn't his problem.

Eddie looked up from his paper and the kid grinned at him, malevolently. Her eyes were hard and shiny with heavy lust and her very red lips wore the practised leer of a seasoned lecher.

Absently, her hand went inside the suit to touch the gun she wore in a shoulder holster, and she swallowed a laugh.

Was that a threat, or a promise?

Whoa, there, fella.

The kid was only 16, she was way too fucking young, when Eddie turned forty he quit screwing broads under 18; they were too much of a fucking headache.

And the kid, Jesus, she was a whole lifetime of headache, just ask her stepfather.

"You tryin' to knock my ass out with those things, kid?" he asked her.

"They gotta mind of their own, Mr. Blake."

"Siddown, kid. Ozzy's squawkin."

"Big fuckin' deal. Fuck him. I'm just tryna feather my nest in case they boot me outa the JLA. An' I gotta lotta respect for Nelly."

She sat down, slowly, holding her hand against her guts on one side.

"Did you really take a bullet in the guts two days ago, kid?"

"Yeah. I got it with a chopper. A fucking chopper. Well I was in the goddamn Bronx, yunno? Son of a bitch went right through the vest. Shit, it was a thirty-aught six, right? If I hadn't been wearing the vest, that woulda killed me. I'm gonna hafta go see my old man, see if he can get me a chopper of my own. You wanna see the bullet?"

She pulled a chain out from under her costume, a chain of dog tags, and there was another link attached to one of them, with a mangled 30/.06 caliber bullet hanging from it.

Kid had dog tags, which meant she had a government job.

"Who you with, kid?"

"The Doc."

"The Doc? What are youse, some kinda rocket scientist?"

"Yeah, actually."

Eddie laughed.

"If you two are finished, I'd like to continue." Ozzy told them.

The Comedian picked up his paper, again.

"Fuckin' Nazi prick." The kid muttered.

"You got that right, kid."

It didn't take Ozzy long to get on her case and the Bat's.

The first time she opened her mouth to try and explain to him the way things were in the street, where she was every day and he wasn't, Ozzy started out telling her that she wouldn't have ended up shot if her methods weren't more "brutal and draconian" than even her stepfather's were.

She had been trying to respond with something like interest and intelligence in his bullshit scheme, but after he got on her case, the kid pulled a flask out of her pocket and lit up.

"Drink?" she asked Eddie.

"Sure."

Scotch.

Good Scotch.

Well, her stepfather and her father were loaded, and she sure wasn't spending her money on dresses and make-up, why drink cheap booze?

"Thanks."

He passed the flask back to her as she responded to Ozzy's taunts.

"Don't bait me with twenty dollar words, Adrian. I'm just as fucking smart as you are, remember? Ask Jon. I work with him. Not for him. With him. And I'm only in my first year of college. You know what, Ozz-man? I might just be smarter than you are. And, by the by, just what have you done in the street, lately?"

Eddie chuckled.

The kid really got one in on Ozzy, the Nazi fuck.

"That's just it, Trivelino. That's where you and Bruce go wrong every time. Yes, the streets are where the crime is, but the best way to stop it isn't always to go out in them and engage any criminal you see. At least the Batman has methods and strategies. You just go out and hurt people."

The Harlequin laughed at him.

"Oh, I see. Wow, Ozzy, you are smart. Fight crime by staying at home, where it's safe. Fuck you. Don't you cast fucking aspersions on me and Batman because neither of us is as much of a pussy as you are." She said.

The Comedian laughed, sharply.

"That's just the kind of attitude that keeps you where you are, Trivelino." Ozymandias corrected her.

"Adrian, please. Let's not make this into a pissing contest. Liv does good work. So does Bruce. We all need to work together, no matter what our methods are." The Nite Owl entreated.

"That's okay, Dan. I got a bigger dick than Nazimandias, here, any day of the fuckin' week. So, my methods keep me where I an now? Well, where am I now? Oh, you mean as a trainee for the Justice League instead of hanging around in a rented firehall with a map from fuckin' P.S. 109 with pushpins in it? You bet your lily white chickenshit ass that I wouldn't lower myself to kick all over this place, it does."

"I think you had better leave, Trivelino."

The kid stood up, slowly, just like she was John Wayne, in a John Wayne movie, letting her chair scrape behind her as she planted her feet apart and her hands loose at her sides, like she was ready to go for her guns, or start throwing punches around.

She smiled, broadly, that old Jack Napier, have you ever danced with the devil by the pale moonlight kind of smile.

"You wanna make me, Ozzy? Because I'm ready for you, baby. I was born ready. Let's go."

Yeah, Eddie recognised that mood.

When he was a young pup the kid's age, just getting into the mask game, he used to slip into it, a lot.

That restless kind of mood where you were really fucking horny, like a randy old junkyard mutt during a full moon, but yet you were pissed off, really pissed off, and if you couldn't find somebody to fuck so you could get to sleep that night, you'd just as well beat the shit out of the next asshole who tried you.

It was a real dangerous fucking mood, that was for sure.

That was when Nelly put his two cents in.

"Hey, come on now, the Nite Owl has a point. Let's not make this into a power struggle, here. We've got work to do."

Captain Metropolis successfully defused the situation, and the kid sat back down, looking disappointed.

She kept drinking, chain-smoking, muttering under her breath.

Real restless.

The meeting ended to Eddie's satisfaction, with him burning up Ozzy's cheap map and telling him to go fuck himself, and as Sally wasn't right on the spot, he had a rare chance to talk to his own daughter.

He and Sal had been doing their off-again, on-again dance for about five years, and she usually had him in the house only when Laurie was in bed or at school, and on the rare occasions he did see her, usually in the doorway when he was leaving or coming in, she paid him no mind, he was just some guy her mother occasionally went around with.

Eddie was just talking to her when Sal came running over to them like the Devil had just stuffed a hot pepper up her ass and hauled Laurie away and read him the riot act.

Eddie couldn't believe Sally would think he'd stoop so low as to try and pick up his own kid.

As he watched her car drive off, though, it dawned on him that Laurie wasn't just being nice to him, she was coming onto him.

That was an unpleasant thought, but even worse was Sally treating him like he was the kind of guy who would fuck his own daughter.

It had been one hell of a night, and Eddie was about ready to have an end to it.

He started walking to his car, but he was interrupted by a tug on the strap of his armor.

He turned around, and there was Liv.

She had gone a whiter shade of pale, and she was clutching one hand over her left side just under her belly.

"Hey, uh, Mr. Blake, you, ah, you didn't drive out here, did youse?"

"Sure I did. You got trouble, kid?" Eddie reminded her.

"Bad trouble. I think I burst a coupla stitches. I wasn't supposed to be outa bed, yunno, but this meeting was supposed to be fuckin important. Important, my ass! I was gonna wait here and hand that Nazi faggot prick his ass when he came out, but I'm in a real bad way. You think maybe youse could gimme a ride to the hospital? I'm bleedin' pretty bad, here."

The kid had the front of her costume partly unzipped, and she was sweaty and trembling, and Eddie could see blood oozing between her fingers, some of it was dripping from her pants leg down to her shoe.

"Jesus Christ, kid!"

Eddie was surprised the kid was even standing; she must have been pretty tough.

He was about to tell her so when her eyes rolled up to the whites and she stumbled blindly forward, and started to crumple.

He caught her, laid her down on the sidewalk, and started unzipping her boiler suit the rest of the way.

She was wearing am army-issue bulletproof vest and GI issue olive drab underwear beneath her costume.

What the fuck did this kid do?

As he was doing so, Adrain Veidt came out of the building.

When he saw the Comedian kneeling over the Harlequin's prone body, he dropped everything he was carrying and ran over.

Ozymandias was horrified, and he pushed the Comedian away from the unconscious teenager.

"What are you doing?"

Eddie would have punched him if he hadn't been trying to stop the kid from bleeding.

"Oh, hiya Ozzy. I was just gonna rape my ol' friend Jack Napier's teenage daughter I knowed since she's a little kid while she's bleedin' to death from a coupla burst stitches to the guts. Hold her down, she might wake up while I'm doing it! Quit askin me dumb fuckin' questions, an' try an stop that bleeding while I go to the phone box an' get some help!"

"Oh my God, she was telling the truth!" he exclaimed.

"Yeah. See this on her tags? That's the bullet."

"Oh my God."

"Nice goin', Ozzy. Real nice. Get a 16 year old kid with a hole in her guts outa bed to come to a meeting, then tell her she can fuck off because her old man's a psycho and her stepfather ain't much better and she ain't too tightly wrapped, herself."

"Don't berate me, Blake. Just call for an ambulance."

After calling for an ambulance and radioing the Bat from his car, Eddie returned to the sidewalk, sized up the situation and he took the unconscious young superhero's mask off.

She was a real pretty little thing, with red hair and fair skin, still looked more like her Ma than crazy Jack, and even though with the GI Issue underwear on, he could see she was built like a brick shithouse.

He could also see she already had a few serious scars and tattoos,

They grow up so fast.

"Why are you undressing her?"

"Because she can't go to the hospital in her costume, can she? Her father's comin' in his civvies, he's gonna bring her some clothes. Will you give it a rest, Veidt? Call me crazy, but I ain't turned on by a fellow mask bleeding to death in the street. I can see she's a pretty broad, I ain't blind, but I ain't gonna do anything about it, am I? Goddamn you, you're doing that wrong, she's bleeding all over herself. Move your fuckin' hands!"

The Comedian found a rag in the kid's pocket that he used to put pressure on the seeping wound.

"Goddamn kid is always in a bad fuckin' way. I pulled her out from under my basement steps at my sister's house when some guy stabbed her. She was just 11. Tryin' to run a pusher off her playground like she was Batman. Her an' Laurie. I hear alla time from my sister, from Sal, she's a smart kid, and a good mask, but she's trouble and she's wild. Her father's Crazy Jack Napier. She killed a man when she was 11 years old. What the fuck did they expect?" he muttered.

"I'm not saying she isn't. Intelligent. Good at her job. But you saw how she acted in there. Violent. Angry. Disrespectful."

"She's a teenager, Veidt. They're like that. Give the kid a fuckin' chance. She'll learn. I did."

Bruce came right before the ambulance and put some jeans on her and stowed away her costume, and after the kid was safe on her way to the hospital, Eddie got in his car and went back to his apartment.

He didn't realise he had the kid's blood all over him until he walked into his clean, well-lit kitchen, and even after he washed up and changed into his bathrobe and was sitting in said kitchen having a drink, he was still thinking about her leering at him and reaching for her gun, and the kid lying in the street, bleeding from a bullet hole in her guts.

Still calling him Mr. Blake.

The kid was crazy.

Mad, bad and dangerous to know.

And she was incredibly fucking young, too young.

Best to keep his distance.

Just be Mr. Blake.

Paulie's uncle.

Wait and see how the kid turned out.

***

The next Wednesday, around six, he stopped off at Grossmann's Diner to pick Sophie up, Wednesday was their night, and Max Grossmann was a real understanding guy of his crazy wife, and Paulie was there, as usual, with his feet up on his usual table, with Tony Donazio's kid, Skinny, and Big Benny was just taking over for his mother.

The door opened and the kid came in, in a pair of Levis and a combat sweater over her GI underwear.

She was still walking a little stiffly, but she was pretty much on the mend.

Eddie stopped her on her way over to sit with Skinny and Paulie.

"How you doin', kid?"

"I'm alright now. I been back to class and to work, an' I'll be back on the street next week. Back to see that Nazimandias son of a bitch."

"Whaddya mean?"

The kid looked both ways.

"Just between you an' me, Mr. Blake, I owe that sunnuvabitch! He can't talk about my Pop like that, an' get away with it. I'm gonna wear a pair of boots with a stacked heel, so I look taller, and gret dressed in black, strap my chest down, make my voice sound like a man's. Put my hair up and a ski mask on, and I'm callin' him out."

"Can you handle that, kid?"

She laughed, that Crazy Jack laugh.

"The woman ain't been born to give birth to the motherfucker who's ass I can't kick. Or at leats, give him a fuckin' run for his money."

Eddie went to the next meeting of the Watchmen, something he didn't usually do, and sure enough, Ozzy had a black eye.

"Any new business?" he asked, as the meeting opened.

"What happened to your pretty face, Veidt?" Eddie asked.

"I was attacked by a group of thugs."

Nobody but the Comedian and Ozymandias knew why the Comedian was laughing so hard.

The Devil made that kid, he made her in Hell, no doubt about it.


	2. Bad Company

**Chapter Two: Bad Company**

**New York City, 1971**

**I. Eddie**

Eddie Blake didn't work well with others.

He'd been on his own since the Minutemen kicked him out in 1940, and he'd laughed off that hokey Crimebusters gig that the Doc and that queer Metropolis and that fuckin' Ozzy kid who thought he was so fuckin' great, and Mr. Mom and Apple Pie Night Owl II had cooked up back in sixty something, and he was glad the Justice League didn't want him, because he wouldn't have joined it even if they paid him in pussy and Cuban cigars.

Not to mention that his track record with women was unspeakably lousy.

Sure, he never had any trouble finding them, in the costume or out of it. After all, women had been tacking his picture to their bedroom walls and drooling over it since about 1942, but even the most slavering groupie had a tendency to come to think he was an incredible prick after a little while.

Sophie put up with him on Wednesdays, but that crazy Jew bitch was, well, crazy, that's what they had in common. Sal put up with him every once in awhile, but with broads, for the most part, they came and then they went, sooner or later, and The Comedian didn't really care, as long as he came, too.

Considering that he had fucked things up royally with the only broad he ever really gave a shit about, it didn't matter to him much.

So he had a real good laugh when Bruce Wayne came to him right after he got back from 'Nam and asked him if he'd take the Harlequin on as an apprentice.

He expected as much.

The kid was twenty-one, now, and she hadn't grown out of being a bad, mean, tough son of a bitch, she'd grown into it.

Less wild and more lethal.

Sure, the kid was a damn good mask, but she was crazy as a shithouse rat and lethal as a pissed off King Cobra.

She had an eye for him, but Napalm had an eye for just about every man who was old enough to have been at D-Day or Iwo Jima and was a bad news lone wolf motherfucker. Even though if she had looked at a dead man the way she looked at him, it would make him hard. Still, Eddie wasn't sure if she wanted to kiss him or kill him, and he wasn't about to try and find out.

The kid was friends with his old buddy Wolverine, and it was blood between them, and she gave Jimmy enough trouble and he only saw her on Wednesdays.

Trouble Eddie didn't need, no thanks.

Sure, the kid needed more training, though.

It wasn't that her methods were elementary. After five years of doing what she did, the dirty work, the real street-level kind of Robin Hood shit he'd done a lot of when he was her age, the kid had it down.

She had some people in the street who were here eyes and ears; they got word to her that somebody had decided to call the Harlequin, and the kid used a combination of brains, detective work and brute force to get the jobs done. She owned several fast cars and a whole lotta guns, and an adamantium machete, and she ran around town in her no frills, get the job done costume, taking it right to the street.

She got in, she did her job and she got the fuck out. Sometimes she had to limp out or crawl out, but she never left a job undone or a punk standing, and some of the criminal fucks she left lying in the street never got up again, if that was what it took to get the job done.

If you got trouble and you want justice, call the Harlequin. I get the job done.

That's what the kid said, and Eddie could respect that.

He had checked out some of her work; the kid conducted her operations with military precision. She never left any physical evidence of her presence, and the neat bullet hole right between the eyes on every body she left, no matter what the other damage was, told the Comedian that she was a real pro, she always confirmed her kills.

That was the way he taught his commandos.

That was what somebody had taught her.

The kid did the kind of work in the kind of way that Eddie could have seen himself maybe getting next to, if she wasn't so fucking reckless.

The problem was, the kid was incredibly fucking reckless. She didn't pick and choose, and she didn't seem to care if she was facing one guy or a gang; she went in, she took it tough, and didn't care if she got out. She always managed to get out, because she was crazy, tough, violent and strong as hell, but her luck wasn't going to hold out forever.

She drank when she was working because she was a drunk who drank all the time. She was crazy and reckless and relentless in pounding the pavement, every night, out on the street, called or not, working or not, if she could drag herself out there she was out there, drunk, nuts, violent, and looking for trouble.

It kept her small time, and even though she had taken and could take a lot of punishment, sooner or later, it was going to get her killed.

But who was going to put his hand in the mouth of a wild dog, besides Jimmy, whose hand would grow back?

Not Eddie.

Not today, thanks.

He had got over that whole bad man with a bad past who doesn't care if he lives or dies shit a long, long time ago.

But Bruce gave him the whole sob story, about how when she wasn't raising hell for the sake of the greater good, she was out raising hell for her its own sake. Driving too fast, drinking too much, running around with men, totalling cars and getting stabbed and beaten and broken up and shot full of holes and laughing it all off like it was nothing.

He brought up the past, the fact that he had known Liv all her life.

He could see why Wayne thought that he could have taken the kid under his wing and showed her the ropes, but the Comedian wasn't interested in working with anybody as a team, let alone Liv Napier, who seemed hell-bent on getting to the cemetery as fast as she could and taking as many scumbags with her as she could.

It wasn't his problem, and Eddie didn't give the matter any more thought until he was at Arkham one Friday night, making a special trip in his civvies to taunt Moloch.

His car was in the shop, not Mason's shop, that sanctimonious faggot cocksucker, so he called it business, put it on Nick Fury's tab, and took a cab.

Sometimes, it's the little things in life that really make your day.

In the bright, fluorescent waiting room with its green mouldy cheese coloured walls, the kid was already sitting there, waiting, probably to see Crazy Jack.

The Comedian gave her the once-over; he couldn't help himself.

She sure wasn't the glamorous type, and she was way too old to be a tomboy.

Despite being a mask for five or six years, with some kind of reputation, good and bad, the kid hadn't grown out of being an outcast, an outlaw and a Brooklyn Irish thug, she had grown into it.

She had on a pair of dungarees with blood, motor oil, or both on them, and jump boots and a tee shirt, and he could see the plain outline of her double shoulder holsters under her coat.

She sat there, chain-smoking, holding her cigarette in a hand with two bashed fingers taped together, jiggling her leg, impatiently. Her long red hung down the seat behind her all the way to her ass, and when she gave him the usual leer, her green eyes looked kind of yellow in the bright light.

The kid had a book on her knee, which she kept jiggling, and when she dropped it and he saw the cover, Eddie saw it was some cheap fuckbook, as it had a drawing on the back cover of some bareass guy standing next to a bed with some chick wearing next to nothing on it.

He chuckled to himself.

A disembodied voice came over the intercom on the wall.

"Ms. Napier. Ms. Napier? This is a no smoking facility."

It was a wonder you could tell she was pretty, even though she had a shiner around one eye and she was dressed like a 'Nam vet with shell shock.

The voice on the intercom asked her to put out her cigarette, again.

Casually, without looking up from the book, she shrugged off the battered army surplus coat and drew a lovingly maintained nickel-plated, pearl-handled .45 automatic, which she casually used to blow the speaker to smithereens.

Eddie laughed.

An orderly soon came into the waiting room and attempted to remove the petite young lady from the premises.

A very big orderly.

She picked him up, by his neck and his nuts, hoisted him over her head, shook him a little for emphasis and then tossed him through what turned out to be a one way mirror.

A bunch of shrinks in white coats cowered on the other side.

"Look, you fucks, I'm not just some dumb cunt who has fuck-all to do all day long! I got shit to do today! Places to go! Scum to kill! Men to fuck! Drinks to have! Now you let me in to see my father, because if you don't, I'm going to quit being fucking cute and funny and ladylike and make some real fucking trouble in this shithole!"

The kid capped off her announcement with a burst of wild laughter.

She came out of the joint at the same time as Eddie did, and it wasn't like he could pretend he didn't know her.

"Nice act, kid. You gonna take it on the road?"

"Fuck yeah. It's Friday night, Mr. Blake. Time for me to get my rocks off. One way or the other. So, how'd you get here? I didn't see any nice cars in the lot."

"Cab. Car's in the shop?"

"Mason's?"

"Naah. He hates me, an' the fuckin' feeling is mutual."

"Lemme have a look at it. I can fix any fuckin thing. So, ya wanna ride back to the city? Might as well have a little fun, right."

Eddie was intrigued.

Just what was Jack Napier's crazy mask kid's idea of fun on a Friday night?

It wasn't like he was afraid of the broad, or anything.

"Why not?"

***

Ten minutes later, the Comedian found himself in a souped-up silver '67 Corvette Stingray, flying down the interstate at about a hundred, with John Lee Hooker singing "I'm Bad Like Jesse James" on the radio as Liv Napier swigged Jack Daniels straight from the bottle.

"Have a drink." She encouraged him, as she lit a cigarette while driving with one hand.

"Don't mind if I do."

The Comedian took a long pull on the bottle, and put it back in the glove compartment.

"You got good taste in music for a kid your age."

"I love the blues, man. That and old time rock and roll. I mean I like some of the new groups, yunno, I like the Who and the Stones, but I can't stand that pop shit and that bubblegum psychedelic lets smoke some dope and get beat up by the cops music. Fuck that shit. I smoked some of that shit in college and it wasn't worth it. The only dope that's worth it is smack. Man, that shit made me feel great. I had some of that shit, and a fifth, and I felt like I was the king of the world. This motherfucker shot me two, three times, and I didn't even feel it. Never did it again, though. Liked it too much. Besides, that shit's for suckers, yunno. I mean, fuck it. I don't wanna be another shell shocked junkie, yunno?"

"Who told you that you was shell shocked?" The Comedian asked.

"This fuckin' doctor. I told him I never been to war, but yunno it's a war out on the street and I guess I've seen a lot and, fuck him, he wanted me to take all this fuckin' medicine and I told him to fuck himself. I'll get over it. Fuck it. Aw shit, yuh see that?"

Eddie looked in the rearview mirror.

He saw cop lights in the distance.

Goddamn cops.

The Comedian knew that he and the cops were supposed to be on the same side, but so many of them were fat, lazy pricks who took payola and looked the other way and had it in for masks that he couldn't muster up a whole lot of goodwill towards them, in general.

Especially not some highway patrol cocksucker trying to break his balls while he was trying to have a good time on a Friday night.

"Fuckin' cops. You gonna stop?"

"The fuck I am! Watch me smoke those pig bastards. Putcher fuckin' seat belt on and hold onto yer ass!" she said.

With a maniacal gleam in her eye, the Harlequin shifted gears and put her foot right in the tank.

The tires squealed and the Stingray roared forward, making a sound like an angry panther. The needle on the speedometer disappeared and so did the policeman's lights.

"Whooooooo-hoooooo! Fuck you, ya fuckin' pig cocksuckers! Listen to that fuckin' engine purr, willya? I worked on this baby, myself. I got it tuned like a fuckin' grand piano. Dual carbs. Racin tyres. Bored out the engine. I can do more'n 200. Fuckin' pig bastards will never catch me. Where's my Chuck Berry tape? There it is."

John Lee Hooker was temporarily replaced by Chuck Berry singing "You Can't Catch Me."

"Pass the bottle, huh?" she said.

Eddie couldn't tell if she was trying him, or if she was always this nuts, or a little of both.

He opened the glove compartment.

"Here you go, kid." He said, and calmly pushed in the cigarette lighter so that he could fire up another cigar.

The kid took two long slugs from the bottle and handed it back to him.

Her eyes were wide and they had a mad light in them as she hooted and laughed.

She was fucking excited, this shit was really turning her on.

Literally.

Eddie got the idea that if he put his hand down the front of her pants she'd be wet.

Soaked.

That was an idea.

She didn't look like she'd mind it, and it was common knowledge the kid was hot stuff. She went through her young punk male admirers like they were made of Kleenex, and left herself plenty of time to chase after the toughest lone wolf tough guys she could find.

Eddie had seen Jimmy on Thursday mornings, and sometimes, the man looked tired.

But this little broad was crazy, she was a stone-cold killer, she killed men with her bare hands, probably with just a little different look of wild-eyed excitement on her face.

She might kill me.

She's Jack's kid, after all.

Two in the head and shove me out onto the side of the road.

No, I never met the guy. Shame about the way he went. National hero. Oh well, how about another drink?

Hell of a broad, though.

He lit his cigar.

"You sure know how to have a good time, kid." He chuckled.

***

Having killed the bottle on the way into the city, the Harlequin and the Comedian decided to hit a bar in Bensonhurst that the Harlequin often went to, and once inside, she proceeded to begin putting away Guinness like she hadn't just drunk a quarter of a bottle of whiskey.

The Comedian was impressed. Sure, she was Irish, but you didn't often meet a woman, even a red-haired Irish girl, who could put it away like that.

"Kid, you drink like my old man." Eddie joked.

He was putting it away right along with her, of course.

"Well, I ain't never pretended not to be a shanty Irish drunk. But I drink like Mick the Merciless? That's no good, Mr. Blake."

"No. It ain't. And the way I hear it, when you go on a binge, you go crazy the same way. Look, kid, will you quit callin' me Mr. Blake, already?"

"Okay, Eddie."

"So, are you really lookin' for a partner?"

"Awwww, shit, Eddie, you an' me both know that you ain't. 'Scuse my language. I should talk better for a quantum physicist, but I don't like to put on airs, yunno? I mean, if you wanted a partner, you've had, what, thirty fuckin' years to get one? Shit, I don't need anybody. I been alone my whole fuckin' life. I mean, I got a coupla friends, people I was a kid with, and yunno, there's Bruce and I can't forget Dick, my Goody Two-Shoes older brother who would shit his pants if he could see me now, but, shit, I know I'm alone. They like me, but they all look at me like I'm fuckin' nuts. Maybe I am fuckin' nuts. I don't care. I don't need a fuckin' partner. Fuck, I don't need anybody. Fuck'm."

The kid looked morosely into her glass for a minute, then she got up, went over to the jukebox, saying hello to some Italian guys in coveralls on the way over, and put on Albert King singing "The Hunter."

Her grandfather was an Italian, no, a Sicilian.

That was probably why she was so goddamn strong.

Halfway through the song, this greasy Mafioso wannabe who looked like he was half Irish and half Italian went over and started trying to fuck with the jukebox.

"Hey you! Chief! Leave that the fuck alone. You can put your nickel in when my song's done."

"Fuck you, you fuckin' whore. I'll do what I want!" he said.

Eddie watched three made Gambino wiseguys get up quietly, throw some money on their table, and leave.

The bartender began putting the bottles of booze under the table, and half the bar turned around and looked at the asshole like he was crazy.

"What did you say to me, you little prick? Get your ass over here and say it to my face, you think you're so fuckin' tough."

The guy came over and so did about four of his friends.

Liv gave Eddie that great big Crazy Jack grin.

"Dig this." She said.

She caught the guy's first punch, literally, and twisted his arm around until the bone snapped through the skin.

He went down like the Titanic, and as the second guy tried to flee, the kid kicked him right in the kidneys so hard that he'd probably be pissing blood for a week.

The third asshole, the one who had started it, had a piece of a broken bottle in his hands.

The kid took the bottle, throwing one army-jacketed arm up in front of her face to absorb the blow, and let him have it with her other hand, pulping his nose.

Meanwhile, the second guy had hauled the first guy to his feet and they both got the fuck out, leaving the third guy, who didn't know when he was beaten to take another punch at the kid, and receive the full force of her fury.

He punched her square in the face and she laughed at him, picked him up the way and had picked up the orderly, and tossed him over the pool table into the cue rack.

Then Liv returned to her chair, unscathed but for a trickle of blood at the corner of her mouth.

"Fuckin' amateurs. Hey, Vito? How about another Guinness down here?"

Then asshole came back, with a pool cue in his hand, getting ready to hit the Harlequin while she wasn't looking.

The Comedian didn't like that kind of shit.

Eddie punched the asshole in the stomach, caught the pool cue as it fell, snapped it in half, and hit the little prick in the face with the thickest part.

Then, he held the pieces of the pool cue on either side of the asshole's neck in an "X" pattern, and squeezed.

"What are you, some kinda fuckin' sore loser? Ya little prick! Guys like you don't deserve to live."

He squeezed harder, increasing the pressure, and the asshole started to gasp, and claw at the halves of the broken pool cue.

"Get your faggot ass the fuck outa here and don't come back. If I hear you had your face in her again, I'll kill you."

The Comedian moved the sticks away, and the asshole dropped to the ground.

He didn't move.

"Hey, didn't the man tell you to get the fuck out? C'mere, you prick!"

The Harlequin picked him up and threw him out the door.

"You shoulda seen that comin' kid."

"I woulda, if I wasn't so drunk."

"Youse shouldn't get that drunk if you ain't at home. Just cos you ain't got the mask on, it doesn't mean you're not a mask."

The kid didn't say anything smart, she nodded like she would remember it.

The Comedian paid for their drinks.

"Let's go, kid. I gotta get home, sometime, tonight, before either of us kills somebody."

***

The shape the kid was in, Eddie could hardly believe that she could drive, but she drove alright, following his directions.

"Hey, I'm sorry I can't come in. Shit, I'm really sorry. You do a hell of a lot for a pair of pants, yunno? But I'm all fucked up. Last time we had a little enchanted evening, I was all fucked up. If anybody got on top of me the way I'm hurtin', I'd fuckin' die. I can't take it. And I was thinking, yunno, maybe we could get in the back of the car, my turn, your turn, but now that fuckin' asshole punches me in the face and my fuckin' jaw hurts too. What a weekend. Friday night and I'm too fucked up and drunk to even give a guy a blow job. An' I wouldn't ask you to do somethin' for me if I couldn't do somethin' for you. And lookit this. My hand's all busted up, I can't even jack off. I am depressed."

The kid laughed, wildly as the Comedian got out of the car.

Eddie just looked at her.

Crazy. She was fucking crazy. Even these slavering groupie dames who ripped open their shirts and begged him to sign their tits and crawled all over him, even they didn't have a mouth on them like that.

"You always talk to men like that, kid?" Eddie asked.

The kid smiled a drunken, crooked leer at him, full of malice and lust.

"Not unless I mean it. I just wantcha to know I mean it. Jesus, my jaw hurts. Gonna hafta put some ice on it. Got hit in the same spot last week. See, I had a nice, quiet night tonight, cos I'm so fucked up. Last week, shit, did I get hurt! I had this fuckin' accident in my other car. I gotta do some body work on it, rebuild the engine, I don't think it's totalled, I can save it. Then, a coupla days later I was workin', I got into it with a buncha guys tryin' to rob this old lady, and one of them had brass knuckles on, an' one had a knife, and, look, see?"

The kid lifted up her shirt a little and the Comedian could see a mass of bruises of varying degrees of black, blue, yellow and green on her ribs along her one side.

It was pretty fucking bad, seeing a young kid like that, a woman, fucked up the way the kid was, even to the Comedian.

"Jesus, kid! Take a fuckin' break, willya?"

"Funny thing is, I was on my way home from the job I went out ta do when I met up with the fuckers. This fuckin' city. It's a fucking jungle. Didn't hafta go to 'Nam to go to the fuckin' jungle. Awwww, I hurt all over. Fuckin' bullshit, man. I shoulda stayed home and worked on the car, but I gotta go see the Old Man, yunno? They had him in that fuckin' straitjacket again. Motherfuckers. That fuckin' ape bastard orderly is lucky I didn't shoot him right in the fuckin' head. I wanted to. They treat the Old Man like he ain't even human. Them and their fuckin' high moral fiber. My ass. What a fuckin' joke. It's all a fuckin' joke. But what am I tellin' you, for, right? You know that. Well, I gotta go home. Eat some Excedrin. Go to bed."

"Yeah kid, you better. And take it easy for awhile. Quiet night, my ass! Whaddya wanna do, kill yourself?" The Comedian asked.

"Me? Kill myself? Shit, if I'm still alive after all the shit I've done since I was sixteen and I started this shit, I'm not sure I can. I hadda good time, tonight, Eddie. I'll be feelin' better soon enough. If you're lookin' for some action, yunno where to find me."

"Yeah. Sure. Go home, kid. Go to bed."

"Look, Eddie, you know where to find me, right? No, ya don't. Look for me at Trivelino Mac's, In Bensonhurst. I know youse know the place. Come over any time. I'll be upstairs in the first flop on the left. If I'm passed out just throw some water on my ass. If that don't work, start without me. You get me hot enough, I'll wake up. What can I say? Ya gotta get it while ya can, right? Right."

The kid peeled out in a blaze of glory, John Lee Hooker playing out the open windows.

The Comedian watched the car disappear and lit up.

Some kind of offer.

And she's old enough now, a grown woman.

Too bad the kid is already fucked.

"Jesus Christ." He said, chuckling sadly to himself.

***

The Comedian was in his living room, watching the tube a few nights later when the phone rang.

"Yeah, hello?"

"Hiya, Eddie."

"Sal? But this morning I was a no-good, stinking, vicious Mick cocksucker who was going straight to hell."

"So? Ya still are tonight. What about Liv?"

"What about her? She gets crazier every time I see her! I barely survived a nice, quiet night with her. Shell shock my ass, that kid is fuckin' nuts! I'll tellya how fuckin' nuts I think she is. She told me to look her up at this bar and I could fuck her any time I wanted, and I haven't gone near the place. What the fuck is wrong with that girl?"

"You haven't gone near the place? What happened? Didja get the clap?"

"Funny, Sal. No, I wanna live. I gotta lot of broads chasin' me, I don't need to get mixed up with the crazy one who's a stone cold killer. And a fuckin' drunk. With a broad like that, she might just shoot me in the head the minute I come through the fuckin' door because she's too drunk to remember what the fuck she said or know what the fuck she's doin'. Jimmy told me that she's havin, wuddyacallit, what he calls the Troubles, she fuckin' shot him right in the face, just that way. On fuckin' Wednesday. Shot him right in the face. Didn't even know who he was. Came to and she had dragged him to her bed and she had his head in her lap, waitin', hopin' he wasn't dead. I guess they made it up real nice after that, but it's all well an' good for him, a bullet won't kill him. Me, one minute I'll be comin', the next minute I'll be goin'."

"It's not funny, Eddie. That girl is going to die. I know you don't give a fuck. Just lemme finish. She wasn't like this when she was younger. You remember. She was tough, sure, but she was a sweet little girl. Pretty. Smart. Funny. Really smart. I mean she graduated college at 19 and she works with the Doc and teaches classes at NYU. I mean, she always liked cars, and men, and blues and booze, and guns, but yunno, she's a mask. Cars and guns go with the territory. I mean, she was always a little wild, but not like this. But who can blame the poor kid? I mean, everybody told her all her life that her father's crazy and it's no use because she's crazy like her father, crazy and bad and she'll come to a bad end. Liv's no crazier than you or me, Eddie. But she doesn't know that."

"So? What does that have to do with me?"

"Awww, fuck, do ya have to be a fuckin' prick all the time, every day of your life, Eddie? Nobody said you had to marry the girl. Or make her your goddamn partner. She needs somebody to show her the ropes. She knows you. You're somebody she'd listen to. And have a little respect for. Yunno?"

"Whaddya expect me to do? Read her the riot act and lay some cock to her? You think that'll get the kid to fly on an even keel? Why me? Yeah, I know. The kid, she's a mean, low-down, two-tone drunken Mick motherfucker who thinks that the whole world's a joke and the joke's on everybody else. Kill you as soon as look at you, break your jaw and make you pick up your teeth and laugh at you while you're doing it. Hey, that sounds familiar. Let's get Eddie to train her. They're like two peas in a pod. Thanks a fuckin' lot, Sal."

"Hey, Eddie, you said it, I didn't. Look, Liv's a good kid. She could be a good mask. She needs a little help. She's from your old neighbourhood. An old friend's kid. Your kid's old friend. Would it kill you to do something, oh, I dunno, heroic, for once, without Tricky Dick tellin' ya?"

"Fuck you! I'm my own man! I made that cocksucker, he didn't make me!"

"Oh yeah, Eddie? Prove it, ya fuckin' Mick cocksucker! Why dontcha at least be a man and go over an' fuck her. Unless you're afraid she's too much for ya. You're gettin' old, Eddie. They shoulda asked a younger asshole!"

Sal hung up on him.

Again.

The Comedian slammed down his phone.

What fucking business was it of his?

What the fuck made everybody think he gave a shit?

***

Time rolled past and the Comedian's phone did not ring.

After his time in 'Nam, so much inaction made him antsy.

He started thinking about the kid.

It was something to do, after all.

So, later on that week, he went around to Trivelino Mac's in Bensonhurst, in his civvies; a pair of work pants, an A-line military undershirt, and his old bomber jacket.

He'd been there quite a few times, it was pretty close to his old house, and he knew Mac McClatchey fairly well.

His place wasn't a joint, it was a pretty nice place, a real neighbourhood kind of bar. Mac usually tended bar, and he was one of those bull-necked, barrel-chested, carroty-haired county Cork sort of guys who looked like he didn't take any shit, and wouldn't want any loudmouth rummies stinking up the place, and chasing off his customers by beating the shit out of people and getting blood and puke all over the floor.

But, sure enough, at one end of the bar, there was the kid, and she was pathetically fucking drunk.

Like the way a bum under a bridge gets drunk.

She looked dirtier and more beaten up than the last time he saw her, like somebody who was at the end of a week-long bender. Her clothes were filthy, and you could smell how bad she smelled all the way on the other side of the barroom.

The kid was so drunk she was barely sitting on the barstool, and her head was bent over, and resting against a half-killed bottle of Jack Daniels that she had her arms folded around.

If you stood close enough to her, you could hear that she was occasionally singing to herself.

"_As I was going over the far famed Kerry mountains/I met with captain Farrell and his money he was counting_…"

For the first time since he didn't know when, Eddie was actually shocked.

He'd seen plenty of pathetic fucking stew bum drunks in his life, man and woman, but they were all old and broken down, or at least middle-aged and broken down.

He never saw one who was just a kid.

What the fuck was going on with this girl?

"Jesus, Mac, what the hell happened to this kid? I've known her as long as you have, longer, and, Jesus, she's a real smart kid, she's pretty, she's a good mask. I knew she was a little wild, it goes with the job, sometimes, but what the fuck is this? What makes a kid only 21 do something like this to herself?"

The kid's head abruptly dropped onto the bar and the bottle tipped over.

Mac caught the bottle before it spilled and put it behind the bar.

"She ain't well. She's havin' the Troubles. That's what we call it, people who are close to her. She gets like this, oh, maybe every three or four months. It's bad, Eddie. Real bad. Probably has something to do with her mother."

"You think she remembers that, Mac? She was so young."

"She remembers her mother died right in front of her. And sure, when she's awake she don't remember how. But she has nightmares. Drinks like this. Then, the Troubles. But even when she ain't like this, she comes in here on her way to work, has a beer and whiskey in her coffee. Drinks all day, every day. Drives too fast. Gets in bar fights. Takes too many chances. She's in bad shape. And the Troubles, they're gettin' worse. She shot her buddy in the face on Wednesday. Didn't even know who he was. If it was anybody else but him, he'd be dead. Liv's gettin' worse. It's bad. Real bad. "

Anybody could see that.

The kid was dead to the world, a bomb wouldn't have shifted her off that barstool, and a look at her face showed Eddie a new shiner on the other eye in place of the old, and now her nose was taped up instead of her fingers.

"So that's what the Bat wants me to do? Make her my responsibility? Get her sobered up a little and straightened out, finish her training?"

"So they're gonna send one roughneck to straighten another one out, are they? I don't know, Eddie. Liv's seen too much. She saw too much by the time she was twelve. I don't have to tellya you don't gotta go to 'Nam to find a jungle. I mean, I know it looks bad on me, lettin' the kid do this in my place, but, what am I gonna do? Have her go someplace else? At least when she's here, I can watch her. I don't know. I used to think it was just a thing, she's young, she's a little wild, she's too smart for her own good, she works a dangerous job and she likes to blow off a little steam, but this, this shit's not normal. I worry she's gonna end up some dope fiend, livin' under a bridge."

"You mean she's a junkie, too?"

"She's been hurt bad a few times, and they gave her morphine for the pain. Heroin, even. But she got off it right away. Now, after she killed the Brooklyn Slasher and lost her mind, she went on a binge where she did a little of everything, but no, Liv's no junkie. Just a drunk. A gutter drunk. A hopeless, degenerate gutter drunk. If she falls all the way down, we'll take her in again. Look after her. Give her a nice place to die."

The bartender got a hitch in his voice.

"She was the sweetest little girl. Don't you remember? Real cute. Real smart. We was so proud of her, doin' all the things she did, so young. I don't know how she came to this. Jesus, Eddie, I know you're a hard man and you got every reason to be, and our Liv ain't your problem, but if you really think you can do somethin' for her, if you gotta ounce of mercy left in ya, please, do it."

Eddie looked down the bar.

Sure, he had an ounce of mercy left in him.

He wasn't a monster, for Christ's sake.

He did remember when she was a little kid, calling him Mr. Blake all the time; he remembered when he pulled her out from under those basements steps, cold and bleeding and scared but playing it tough, taking it on the chin like a good mask, even then.

He felt sorry for the kid, and her carroty-haired tough-guy uncle, almost moved to tears by the sight of her.

Eddie thought about his daughter and his nephew, the kid was their friend. He though about Crazy Jack, this was his daughter. For a minute he even thought of Merrie, who died in such a horrible way, right in front of her daughter's eyes.

And he looked at her, draped over the bar, like some kind of blown-out old shanty barroom whore.

_"…__musha ring dumma do damma da/whack for the daddy 'ol/whack for the daddy 'ol/there's whiskey in the jar…"_

If she didn't kill herself, that was how she'd end up, maybe with a needle in her arm, too.

"My Ma usedta do that. When the Old Man beat her up. Get drunk and sing those old songs to herself."

"And you don't?"

"Not like that, Mac."

"No, you gotta point. Not like that."

It wouldn't hurt to give her a chance, see what she could do in action when she wasn't fucking annihilated.

"Well, when she gets past these Troubles, you tell the kid that Eddie stopped by. When she comes to, tell her to sober up and be ready to work by Monday morning. She said she'd take a look at my fuckin' car for me. I'll have the wrecker tow it out there to Wayne's joint. If she don't fuck that up, maybe we can arrange somethin' else. Things are gettin' hot over there in the Bronx with those Knot Tops. Pretty soon the Boy Scout's got some work comin' our way. She'll know what I mean."

***

On Monday night, the kid met him in her private workshop, in coveralls and a bandanna, with those two long pigtails on either side of her head, damn close to stone cold sober and ready to work.

She took a look under the hood of the Caddy.

"Go in there an start' er up, Eddie."

The Comedian started his car.

"Yeah, yeah, I know that sound. That ain't good at all. Some numb-fuck cross-threaded your plugs. One of 'em's about ready to shoot out of the block. Gotta do some engine work. You mind of I get Joe Mac in on this job? Hard to get an engine out by yourself."

"Sure, kid. Why not. When ya gonna be done?"

"Oh, if we start now, I'll have it for youse tomorrow morning."

She went over to the phone.

"Hiya Joe. Gotta job for youse. Engine work. For the Comedian…yeah, Joe, that's right. Okay. Yeah, I'll seeya soon. Bye."

She hung up, and went over to the wall where her tools hung.

"I'll call youse, Eddie." She said.

She called him that night instead of that morning, opened the garage door all covered in motor oil and grease.

"Whoever fucked your engine up that bad, man, you oughta knock the bastard out. I bored the engine out for youse, too, while I was in there. Re-machined the head. Changed the oil. And the fluids. An' you better find a better place ta park your ride, somebody was monkeyin' with your brakes. Fixed 'em. Oughtta run like hell, now. C'mon, Eddie, put your fuckin' wallet away, I known youse all my life. You heard from Danny Boy?"

"You mean the Boy Scout?" The Comedian asked.

"Yeah. That shit the Knot Tops are pullin' in the Bronx, it's gettin' outa hand. What the fuck is he waitin' for?"

"I dunno, kid. But if he don't decide it's time to move in soon, I'll borrow Pat's truck, an' you an' me can move in."

"No shit, Eddie? That wartime truck, the armoured one, that's Pat's? How the fuck did he get to keep that?"

"I'm his fuckin' Uncle, that's how. Pat loved that truck. Saved his life a million times over in 'Nam. Why should he hafta part with it? I'll call him. Just in case. I'll be in touch, kid."

"Thanks, Eddie."

***

The Comedian had his nephew's truck all lined up when he got the call from the Nite Owl on Wednesday.

Now, going into a riot in gang territory in the ruins of the South Bronx with the Boy Scout and and his nutty buddy, the Inkblot was never what Eddie called a good time, but at least Ozzy wasn't going to be there and the kid would be on board.

His car was running like it never ran before; when you stepped on the gas pedal the sunnuvabitch flew. He had the needle buried on the way to DC pretty much the whole trip and the car used less gas than before.

The kid did good work in the garage. This riot squad deal would give him the opportunity to see what the kid could do sober and on the job in the street.

She showed up, precisely on time in that fuck you, take no prisoners boiler suit costume, armed to the teeth.

Twin .45 autos, the adamantium machete, a bandolier of 30/.06 bullets slung across her body commando style, toting a lovingly maintained Tommy gun.

"Nice chopper, kid."

"Thanks, Eddie."

"Um, Liv, do you really think you need to be…quite so heavily armed?" the Nite Owl asked.

"Yeah, Dan. I do. I mean, we ain't goin' ta play Bingo in the church hall, yunno? Better safe than sorry."

The Comedian noticed she had her hair tied up in a long red braid that went down the middle of her back.

Bad idea.

Somebody could just grab it.

She was reasonably sober, like on Monday, and her face was all healed up.

"You clean up pretty good, kid. You ready for this shit?" he asked her.

"Fuck yeah! Some motherfucker's gonna get his head kicked in tonight, and it ain't gonna be me!" the kid enthused.

"Well, at least ya do something ya love for a livin'." The Comedian quipped.

"It was either this or bein' a porno queen. But since I don't eat pussy or take it up the ass, this will do." The Harlequin replied.

For a minute, the Comedian just looked at the kid and blinked.

"Yunno, kid, I think that's the filthiest thing I ever heard a woman say." He told her.

"Twenty bucks. You need a towel?"

She grinned at him, and then they both began to laugh in earnest.

***

"Please disperse. The riot police will be here, shortly. Please disperse."

The Comedian gave the Night Owl a look of disbelief as he addressed the crowd of violent gang members rioting in the burning street.

"What the fuck is the matter with you? Do something! Shoot 'em!"

"I can't just kill them all!"

"No? Then I'll do it! Outta my way, Inkblot."

"The sight's a little off on the left, Comedian." Rorschach told him

"Oh yeah? Thanks. You're a lot smarter than your partner is. Okay you sonsabitches! Take this."

The Nite Owl put his ship on auto-plot, got up and stood between The Comedian and the gatling gun.

"Don't touch that gun, goddamnit! Why do you always have to resort to brute force? Why can't you ever listen to anybody's plans for-"

"Plans? Do you think this fuckin' scum is gonna listen to your plans? Whaddya wanna do, have a tea party an' bring in a buncha fuckin social workers? Awww, fuck it. Fuck it! Fuck you, Boy Scout! Why don'tcha just hang up your suit and park this thing and you and that other faggot Boy Scout Hollis Mason can drink beer and suck each other's dicks! Go fuck yourself, I got work to do!"

The Comedian was mad.

He opened the hatch, and got out his guns.

The Nite Owl was not fond of Eddie Blake, and he'd had just about enough of his specious insults and the way he always badmouthed Hollis Mason and most of the other Minutemen.

But that didn't mean he wanted to watch the man die.

"Jesus, Blake, don't go out there! That's not a crowd of kids protesting or some neighbourhood drunks with Molotov cocktails having a riot! Those are mad dog killer gang members with every weapon known to mankind! They'll kill you! You can't go out there!" the Nite Owl told him.

"Oh yeah? Watch me."

Eddie flipped him the bird, and then he was gone.

The Nite Owl looked on in horror as the Comedian jumped into the roiling, violent mob, and it swallowed him up.

"Oh my God." He said.

The Harlequin had jumped to her feet and now she was standing by the open hatch, and looking down.

She flinched, and smiled grimly.

"Well, boys, it's time to drop our cocks and grab our socks! Rorschach, get on that machine gun and give me some coverage. Danny Boy, this is your baby. I know you got some kind of gadget in here to pull us outa this shit. Good thing I got the jump boots. Geronimoooooooo!"

She pulled the bolt back on the Tommy Gun, and before the Nite Owl could tell her not to go, she had jumped out into the street below.

He started flipping switches and manoeuvring, and Rorschach let loose with the machine gun. ***

The Comedian realised that he was fucked about two seconds after he landed on the ground, but that didn't stop him from trying to get out of it.

By the time thirty of them were closing in and more than that were on the ground, he had long been out of bullets, going at it with his bare hands and was beginning to think the joke was on him. But then Eddie heard the laugh that he was considering coming from the Owlship as the kid came sailing out and hit the ground running, amid a hail of bullets from the shipboard gun.

She tossed one of her guns to him, grabbed one of the Knot Tops by his knot top, pulled the machete, and cut it off.

The knot, and the top.

Holy shit, the kid just fucking scalped that cocksucker.

She laughed again, and waved the bloody scalp at some of the dead man's pals.

"C'mon! C'mon, you motherfuckers, lets get it on!" she screamed.

Look at him run.

Look at all of 'em, running.

She fought her way over to the Comedian, cutting loose with the chopper.

She wasn't just spraying bullets, either, the kid had good control over it and great aim; she was mowing them down like flies.

She slung it over her back when she ran out of ammo, and pulled her remaining .45. She shot a Knot-Top point blank in the face who was in her way of putting her back against Eddie Blake's.

"Some fun, huh, Eddie?"

"A real party, kid. We shoulda gone for the dirty movies."

"You got the credentials for that?"

"If we get outa this alive, maybe you'll find out, if you go out and buy a fuckin' skirt."

By the time that the Nite Owl used a jet of fire to make a burning boundary between the Comedian, the Harlequin and the mob, and Rorschach had the rioters on the run with the gatling gun, she was out of bullets, too.

That didn't stop the kid; she didn't have time to go for the machete, so she disabled the last approaching knife-toting Knot Top with an inside punch to the solar plexus, took his knife from his relaxing hand, stuck it in his chest and, putting both her hands on his head in a hold Eddie knew well, turned sharply, and broke his neck.

Pretty much all in a fluid motion.

The kid was good.

Real good.

Sal and the Bat and the street had trained her well.

The Comedian watched the rioting gang members break up and flee, and he realised that he was still alive, and more or less, in one piece.

He turned to the Harlequin, who was standing there with blood, some of it hers and some of it not, all over her face and her costume, checking her guns.

She had lit a cigarette, and was pulling a flask out of one of the pockets on her boiler suit.

"Yeah, another night, another injury, another buncha dead punks. Drink?" she asked.

"Sure, kid."

He took a long pull.

"That's the good stuff."

"Best that money can buy."

"So, what the fuck made you do that?" he asked.

"I dunno. I figured if I did something really violent and shocking it might give me enough time to get to you before they killed us both. I shouda cut his whole head off, really."

"Not that, kid. Although I gotta say it gave those motherfuckers something to think about. What I mean is, what made you jump out of the ship to save me?"

The Harlequin shrugged.

"I dunno, Eddie. I just couldn't sit there and watch ya die. I mean, I've known youse all my life. Funny, ain't it?" she replied.

"Hilarious. Hey, Boy Scout? How about landing that fuckin' thing so we can get back in?"

The kid started limping back towards the owlship, and Eddie stopped her.

"Ya hurt, kid?" he asked.

She looked at him like he'd grown an extra head.

"You care?"

"Yeah, I care. This is my operation, an' I got wounded, here, I gotta assess the casualties. How bad is it?"

"It hurts pretty bad. I dunno. I mean I didn't break it, I can tell, but I landed on it funny. I never jumped out of anything before. It keeps wantin' to give out on me when I put weight on it."

"Lemme help ya."

***

There was a whole lot of silence in the Owlship on the way back to the Nite Owl's lair.

The Harlequin took her right boot off and started examining her knee; it wasn't swelling and she figured it was probably alright.

The Comedian smoked, and shot dirty looks at Nite Owl.

Rorschach, oddly enough, was the only one to say anything on the whole return trip.

"Leg alright, Harlequin?"

"I think so. I can't put my weight on it without it collapsing, but it aint welling up too much. I think I just wrenched it. Tore something up in my knee. I'll have to stay off my feet for a coupla days, that's all." she said, as she tried to put her boot back on.

It was a silence which the Comedian loudly broke when the ship landed and he disembarked, flying into a screaming, spitting, towering rage.

"Please disperse? PLEASE DISPERSE! YOU ASSHOLE! That was your big fuckin' plan? To ask the nice psycho junkie baby-raping criminal fucks to PLEASE DISPERSE? What are you, some kinda moron? Did your mother get drunk and fall down while she was pregnant, or did she drop you on your head after you was fuckin' born! I mean, even that fuckin' faggot Hollis Mason used to go out and fight the bad guys, he didn't sit around all day in a giant flying tin can and tell people to PLEASE DISPERSE! Youse almost got me killed with your PLEASE DISPERSE! You're lucky I don't fuckin' disperse your ass! I'd like to see you try and take me, ya fuckin' poindexter faggot bastard!"

"I had a plan apart from 'please disperse'. I was going to use the capabilities of the ship to encourage everyone to leave with as little danger to us and general bloodshed as possible. That is, after all, the point of having Archie, that a few people can manage a large crowd without putting their lives at risk. I had everything under control until you decided that you were in a John Wayne movie and jumped out of the goddamn ship." the Nite Owl maintained, using a calm, clear and well-modulated tone

The Comedian, still furious, took the low road out of the argument.

He put his fist through the brick wall of the hangar, then ripped a large flashing module out of its housing and tossed it through the nearest available closed window, creating a satisfying shower of debris, sparks, and broken glass.

"Fuck you, Boy Scout! Not only didja almost get me killed, ya almost got the goddamn kid killed, too! An' the kid, who's a fuckin' woman, has more balls than you do! Call me when you grow a pair! C'mon kid, let's get the fuck outa here!"

The Harlequin looked at the Nite Owl, and then at the Comedian, who was stalking toward the exit tunnel.

"Do I go with him?" she asked.

Dan Drieberg heaved a great sigh.

"Liv, I never even heard of anybody doing anything like what you did, tonight. That was the bravest thing I ever saw anyone do. As far as I'm concerned, you don't need to know anything else about being a hero. But the League disagrees with me. They think you need guidance, and structure and they think that Eddie Blake can give it to you. Maybe they're right. But don't lose yourself in him. Just because you're young and troubled and self-destructive, it doesn't make you a horrible excuse for a human being. But the Comedian can make you one. Remember that. But, yes, you go with him. I'll call you if I need you."

"Nobody's all bad, Danny Boy. Especially not Eddie. He's alright. He's my best friend's uncle. I've known him, well, for as long as I can remember. An' you and Rorschach know where to find me."

"You comin', kid?" The Comedian called.

"Yeah, I'm comin', Eddie! Keep your dick in your pants, I'm comin. I can't walk, here, remember?"

The Comedian started swearing again, and heading back for the hangar.

Nite Owl didn't want him to destroy anything else.

"Don't bother coming back, I've got some crutches down here I can loan Liv! Wait, let me see where I put them. Here they are. I'd better lower them for you, Liv. Are you going to be alright?"

"Yeah. Sure. Eddie'll look after me. Thanks, Dan. Okay, okay, Eddie. I'm comin'."

The Comedian stood waiting, and the Nite Owl helped the Harlequin get out of the owlship, and she got on the crutches and limped over to the Comedian.

Then they both started on their way down the tunnel.

"I need a drink."

"Me too. Let's go to your Uncle Mac's place. And undo that fuckin' braid. Somebody could yank on it, pull your head back, and slit your throat."

"I never thought of that."

"There's a lot you never thought of, kid. We gotta talk. You gotta get your shit together. Lemme walk a little slower for ya, kid. You mangin', alright on those things?"

"Yeah. They're a little big for me, is all. I'm managin'."

***

The Nite Owl took off his mask, and put his face in his hands.

"I can't believe I just handed Liv over to that asshole, just like that."

Rorschach's mask moved, imperceptibly.

"She made her choice when she jumped out of the ship, Daniel." He assured his partner.

He heard Liv's sardonic laugh echoing down the tunnel, as if the Comedian had just suggested something to her that she would not have even considered letting anyone say to her on the past unless she could seriously injure them.

"Well, I hope she gives the son-of-a-bitch a run for his money." Nite Owl replied.

***

They were both pretty banged up when they got to John McClatchey's bar, and The Comedian could see that the kid was in a lot of pain she wasn't talking about, so he went to get the drinks.

"You a junkie, kid?"

"Me? Fuck no. I did a little chipping after I was hurt, a couple times, but I never did the shit for fun. I ain't no junkie. I'm a fuckin' pathetic shit-faced drunk, but I'm not a junkie."

"It's not funny, kid. You are a pathetic fuckin' drunk. I came in here one night, lookin' for you, and you was over there at the end of the bar, so drunk that you didn't know you were here, let alone me. That shit has to stop, right now. If you gotta go to the bughouse, go."

"Fuck the bughouse. I can cut down. I got a reason to, now."

"What, to impress me? I'm not impressed. You got a lot to learn, kid. Your costume needs work, your methods are sloppy as hell and you got a lot of balls, and I can see you used to have a lotta skill, but you're so far into the bottom of a bottle of Jack that sometimes you come off like a fuckin' amateur. If you weren't so fuckin' mean and ferocious, you'd be dead. And don't gimme that look. I'd threaten to wipe it off your face, but I'm not gonna fuck around with this slap and tickle shit. You're gonna work, kid, harder than you ever worked before. And one more thing."

"What's that?"

"Quit lookin' at me like it's Christmas early this year! I'm tryna tell you important shit and you're sittin' there thinkin' about sixteen different ways you could jump on my cock. I'm not one of your fuckin' candy-ass punk hippie college boy buddies, I'm a man, for Christ's sake! How about showin' me some fuckin' respect! And you got to learn how to do something besides drink, fuck and brawl. I'm your goddamn boss, from here on in. You're my fuckin' responsibility, an' whether you like it our not, it's up to me to save your ass, and for that, you're gonna need more from me than my cock. You got me?"

"Yeah, sure, Eddie. Whatever you say."

The kid smiled, raised her glass, and as she put it down, started eyeballing his codpiece with a jaded eye.

Incredible.

She was like one of those broads in the movies from the forties. Looked at every man she saw like he was a helpless chump who thought with his dick, and would do anything she said just because she was a woman.  
Kiss you, then kill you.

Except they always looked nice.

"You ain't my type."

"I can fix that."

"What are you gonna do, kid? Put a gun to my head?"

"Eventually. If you don't come across."

She laughed and finished her drink, but the Comedian wasn't too sure she was kidding.

Crazy broad.

"Fuck, that hurts. I think I need another drink. I'm gonna send down a few more of those Tylenols, to see what the fuck became of the first three."

"What you need is a fuckin' doctor. Can you walk at all? Tell me the truth, kid."

"I'll walk outa here. I don't want nobody here to see me hafta get carried out when I'm sober. After that, I'm fucked."

"No you ain't. I'll carry ya to the car. Brooklyn General ain't far from here, anyway."

***

Around two in the morning, the ER at Brooklyn General got into quite a stir when the Comedian came in through the front doors, blood all over his armor, carrying the Harlequin, who was holding onto the boot he had taken off of her swollen leg.

She was also spattered and splotched with blood.

"I need a doctor here, I gotta woman with a busted leg, or somethin'." The Comedian announced.

Celebrity has its benefits, and a stretcher soon materialised for Eddie to put Liv down on.

"What happened?" asked the doctor.

"She jumped out of an airship. About fifty feet down. We took care of that riot problem, tonight." Eddie told him.

"I see. Actually, I think you might need to be seen, too. That cut on your arm looks like it needs stitches."

"Fine. Take me in with the kid, and sew me up."

The doctor paused.

"Are you responsible for her, sir?" he asked.

"Hey, that kid jumped out of a fuckin' airship to save my life, tonight. She never jumped outa so much as a doorway before. I've know her all her life. From here on out, I sure as fuck am. Let's go, Doc." The Comedian said.

***

There were times when the Comedian wished he'd never taken the Harlequin under his wing. Times when it was like breastfeeding a pigeon with a very sharp beak.

The joke was definitely on him.

As for good points, Liv Napier was witty and tough, and strong, a fast-learner and a crack marksman and street fighter. She was loyal, but not mindlessly so. And she was smart. Maybe nearly as smart as that prick Ozymandias, but not so sanctimonious about it

She was crafty and she had an innate understanding of villains, and how their twisted minds worked. She could be a lot of fun and she didn't have a lot of bullshit illusions about how shit was supposed to be. It may have been sick, but the kid had a great sense of humour.

She wasn't a drag like most broads were, either. She liked to smoke and drink, she swore like a pirate, and she liked to fight, shoot guns and drive fast. She didn't always need somebody to be there with a giant powder puff to powder her ass every five minutes, and she liked the Stooges, Westerns, and war movies.

On the other hand, she was mean, ruthless, brutal, and cheerfully without conscience, the half-mad devil child of the king of chaos who recognised no limits and had a boundless energy for furthering the amount of disorder in any place at any time. Everything Liv did, she overdid, and her moods swung like a donkey's balls. She was either one way or the other, in the extreme and never anywhere in-between. Liv didn't understand even the concept of consequences and everything and anything, whether in an ironic sense or straight-up, struck her as funny.

And then there were what Bruce Wayne and Clark Kent had dubbed her "Troubles".

Holy shit.

As it turned out, their little Friday night outing was just the tip of the iceberg.

Troubles? Sneezing and having a runny nose is troubles. A woman who cries for a week straight when she isn't tearing your head off right around the time she goes on the rag is troubles. Not being able to eat Mex food without getting the shits is troubles.

Somebody who is half -crocked when they're working and blind, stinking drunk the rest of the time, pretty much morning, noon, and night and relaxes after a long night of breaking up riots and knocking heads together and mixing it up with criminal scumbags by driving through the five boroughs in a '65 Mustang or on a '57 Triumph T- Bird at speeds in excess of 80 miles and hour until she finds the worst dump in the world to get blind stinking drunk in and have a fight with six guys and possibly get cut or shot and dump the bike or ram the car into something on the way home is not troubles.

That would be better described as fucking psycho.

And that was just the kid, not the Troubles.

According to Logan, the Troubles was a week of horrible nightmares, binge drinking to the point of alcohol poisoning, culminating in an ultraviolent homicidal rage that resulted in hordes of dead badguys and put the kid either in bed or in the hospital hurt real bad, and if you weren't smart or quick enough to get out of the way of the steamroller, you'd get fucked up pretty bad, as well.

No doubt when Bruce saw Liv in that condition, he looked at her and saw the little kid in pigtails that he first took into his home, without remembering that that same little kid saved the life of the guy that was taking care of her while Jack was in the bughouse again by firing five bullets through the guy's car door at some low-level wiseguy sent to kill him over some gambling debts with a gun her Daddy gave her when she was five and told her to carry at all times.

Liv was a good kid, but she was batshit fuckin' crazy, and as mean as a little wolverine. If you asked her to do something nicely, all you were going to get was laughed at.

To be fair, Eddie gave her a couple of chances when she came around in the morning hung over, or fucked up, or both and just told her to clean up her fucking act or he was going to kick her to the curb.

She didn't listen.

Now, despite the fact that people thought he was a real prick, he wasn't the kind of prick who would punch a girl half his age and half his size right in the face when she had already had the fuck beaten out of her the night before, even if she was stronger than most guys his size and a superhero who had once beaten a vicious sex killer to death with her bare hands.

Smeared the bastard all over the room.

The kid had talent.

No, he waited for a day when she was just hung-over, and only slapped her across the face as hard as he could.

On both sides.

Liv was so surprised that she just stood there for a minute and bled.

That was long enough for Eddie to pin her to the wall.

"Just what the fuck is the matter with you, kid? When are you gonna stop acting like a spoiled fucking brat? And don't gimme that traumatic childhood shit, neither. You spent four years in East New York, scrubbin' floors an eatin' TV dinners, and you only had to kill one guy to get out. The rest of your life, you were in the lap of luxury. First with Crazy Jack, who treated you like a princess an' was nothin' but good to ya, and then with Bruce Wayne, who had even more money and treated ya like a Queen. Sent ya to college, bought ya cars, even trained you himself to be a mask when you said ya wanted to be. You wanna hear about childhood trauma? Try coming out of a family of 12 livin' in East New York for sixteen years, havin' to murder your piece of shit criminal old man walk out when you're 14, so he don't rape an' murder the whole family. Meanwhile, you gotta quit school and go get a job cos you're the oldest boy, and yer mother and yer sisters can't make enough money scrubbin' floors during the fuckin' Depression to make ends meet. Try bein' 16 and responsible for supportin' four kid brothers and three kid sisters after your mother dies from drinkin' too much an' workin' too hard. Me an' my two older sisters, we couldn't work enough hours in the fuckin' day to keep our shit together. I started out in the mask business cos I hated piece of shit petty criminals like my worthless fuckin' old man, I hope he's smokin' and tastin' in Hell, but also cos there was a lot of money in it in those days. And the money you got from the piece of shit criminals. They weren't going to complain to the cops you left 'em for that you robbed 'em. That's how I came up. An' I may have been a little too crazy when I was a kid, an' a little too brutal, but when they let me in the Minutemen, I never pulled the kind of shit you pulled. Cos' I knew if I pissed those guys off that I was gonna starve and that my family was gonna starve. I'm not your Daddy and I ain't your Uncle Brucie. You pull this shit on me and I ain't gonna take it. You better be able to take it tough, cos if I have to, I'll beat some fuckin' sense into your crazy, ornery hide. And if that doesn't work, your ass is outta here! You get me, kid?"

He thought she was going to come back at him with some kind of smart remark, but all she did was nod.

"Yeah, I got you, Eddie. I'm sorry, man. I didn't mean to show youse no disrespect, but, I just don't know what the fuck is the matter with me. It's like I got hellfire inside of me, and it's always burnin' me. And my mind never stops goin. Its' like a jet engine, roarin at me alla time. An' I got an itch on me, I can't even explain, an itch I can't reach to scratch. No matter what I do, I get no peace from the burnin', and the itchin', and the roarin'. It's gonna drive me to my fuckin' death."

"Well you sure as shit ain't gonna drink, fuck, or fight that outa you. You've tried and look where ya are, now? You're half-crazy, and it ain't crazy like your old man. I know that's what everybody tells you and they make a big deal about it like it's your destiny and they got a crystal ball and a degree in fuckin' psychology. Bullshit. Jack's crazy, but like they say, he's crazy like a fox, not stupid crazy. You're the same way. Crazy ain't your problem. Your problem is you're fuckin' drunk all the time. I mean I like to have a few drinks, an' sometimes, I like to get fuckin' drunk, but you, Christ, kid, you drink all day long, every fuckin' day. You drink because it's fuckin' sunny, and you drink because it's rainin' and you drink because it's fuckin' Tuesday at 2:30. Sure you cut down, but half the goddamn time you're fuckin' stinkin' drunk like a stew bum in the fuckin' Bowery. So you never know what the fuck you're doing, and you're too drunk to know when to stop fuckin' doin 'it. If I was drunk all the time, I'd be out doing Christ knows what, too. How 'bout makin' a rule not to drink during workin' hours, at least, yunno? You gotta make more of an effort not to be such a fuckin lush, kid. That's a good place to start"

Eddie let her go, and he went and sat on his couch, and Liv sat next to him.

"I dunno, Eddie. I'm a lotta pain, alla time, too."

"That's because of your fuckin' methods. Ya go out every night, half-cocked and half-cocked, with no backup and take a fucking beating most masks don't even get in a month. An ya don't care, because you're too drunk. It's a vicious circle. What you need is a coupla months at the MORC. And ta lose that Tylenol. Ya ever heard of ibuprofen?"

"Is that dope?"

"No. It's like aspirin, except it works. Ya get it from your doctor. You take one pill two, three times a day and you ain't in so much pain. But, with you, the fuckin' beatin's you take, you'd need morphine. Kid, you gotta quit bein' such a fuckin' Brooklyn Irish thug. Where did your fuckin' crutches go? I know you're still hurtin, you're draggin' that leg. Limpin' around. Use the fuckin' crutches another week, it won't killya. I know you think that cos youse is smart and you got college jobs it makes you a fuckin' pussy, so you gotta go out and prove what a tough motherfucker you are. Tougher than all the guys, even though you're a broad. Which is bullshit. Everybody knows you're a tough motherfucker. If youse wasn't, youse wouldn't be workin' with me, and those two fuckin' slaps woulda knocked you on your ass. Bruce is a smart guy. Clark is a smart guy. The Doc, who you work for, he's an unbelievably fuckin' smart guy. Are they a bunch of pussies? Kid, you don't even have a dick and you can't keep it in your pants. Nobody thinks you're just a dumb girl. Most people don't even realise you are a girl whenya got your coat closed, they just think you're some guy with real long hair. Take a fuckin' break."

Liv looked thoughtful, like Eddie was the first person to tell her something that really made sense.

"And one more thing. I know women. I've had a lot of 'em. Some women can take fucking or leave it, and some women can't take it if they have to leave it. You, you got the itch, kid, and you got it so bad you can't find nothing and no one to scratch it. And I'll tellya why. Because what you want is a man, a real man to take care of you. And I don't mean just to fuck you real good, although that's' the main part of it. You want somebody who don't get up and wipe their dick on your curtains an' run for his life as soon as he's finished. I mean, shit, an H-Bomb couldn't kill Logan, and it's blood between you and he can only cope with ya one day out of a week. You know why? Cos you can't quit bein' a man, bein' a real tough guy prick long enough to get close to a man."

"Is that what it is with you, Eddie?"

"No, kid. I know what kinda broad you are under those coveralls an' boxer shorts. But ya gotta put business before pleasure, and I can't sober youse up and get your shit together by wavin' my magic dick. And, about that roarin', lemme tell youse somethin'? Are you listenin to me?"

The kid nodded.

"Yeah, Eddie."

"Good. Cos this is important. I know what they tellya. How they treat ya, the other masks. Hell, everybody, mask or no. They all tellya about right and wrong and all that shit and how you was born bad and you'll stay that way, and come to a bad end. They tellya about the way things are supposed to be, and you should either be barefoot an' pregnant in the kitchen makin' cookies, or workin quietly in some laboratory or as a professor and comin' home at five. That shit's the joke that everybody tries to push on you, and it's shit. You do what you gotta do to survive, and, when you're a mask, you do what you gotta do to make sure they lose and you win. And the bad guys and the good guys ain't always the same guys every time. It all depends on the situation. All that other shit, it's a fuckin' joke, it ain't real, it's shit they tell rich kids in school so they never have to figure out how shitty the world really is. Don't let 'em get to you, kid. Don't let 'em convince you that you're shit and that you deserve to be shit just because you're not as fuckin' stupid as they are. Don't worry about what you're supposed to do, just do what you know you gotta do. Scratch that itch. Fuck 'em. Joke's on them. "

That was the first time she gave him that look.

Jesus Christ, that fuckin' look.

It started out with a long, slow leer on her red lips that tugged at the corners of her eyes, making them slit into two glittery cat's eyes, filled with the kind of laughter they lock people up for. Then that leer turned into a grin, and she nodded slowly, with complete understanding, like he'd put the key in the lock and found the prize.

All his life, Eddie Blake had been waiting to see a look like that on a woman's face, to finally meet a girl who got the joke.

Who else would she be?

"Jesus, Eddie, you're the only person I ever met in my life who tried to teach me anything about what people like us do in the fuckin' world that's ever made any sense." She said.

"Sure I am. That's why Wayne sent you to me. Now, are you gonna get your shit together, or am I gonna have to make the beatings those guys you meet in bars look like kisses?"

"You try that and I'll knock you on your ass, old man."

Eddie was about to hit her, when he realised she was just fucking around.

Liv was always fucking around like that, she loved to tease him and goad him and get him all bent out of shape, and she wasn't even a little bit afraid of him, at all.

"Well, if you wanna knock me on my ass, you're gonna have to get your shit together." He told her.

"Eddie, d'you really think I'm not crazy?"

"Kid, you're just as sane as me or any of the rest of us. It's just you figure, fuck it, it's good enough, I'm a superhero, I'm tough, I'm bad like Jesse James. You're bored and you're drunk and you're horny and you don't care. You figure lots of kids your age are bored and drink and horny. And fuckin' high, too. And they are. Most kids your age ain't worth a fuck, though. But most of them are college students, or they live in a fuckin' commune, or with their boyfriend, or their girlfriend, or their mother, or they work in some store. But you're a mask. And that kinda thinkin' will get you killed. I know you was trained better than that, and you're gonna have to cut this shit out and get up to speed. You ain't crazy and you ain't gonna use that as a fuckin' excuse, anymore. Now, next time you come here in the morning hung over, I'm sendin' your ass home. Next time you show up late and drunk, I'm sendin' your ass home. And if I have to send your ass home too many times, don't bother comin back. An' if I have to kick your ass to the curb, I'm gonna kick it there. I'm gonna beat your ass like you've never been beat before. So you get your shit together, kid. Or else? Okay?"

"Okay. But I don't know if I can do it on my own."

"You ain't on your own no more, kid. And if you really get in a bad way, we'll send you to the S.H.I.E.L.D MORC hospital our West for rehab, like I said. Now, go home an' sleep it off, an' come back tomorrow when you're sober."

"Do I hafta go alla way home, Eddie? My leg's fuckin' killin' me. You got any of them ibey-whatsises?"

"Yeah. Go ahead, sleep in the spare room. Here. And don't chew it up like a fuckin' animal. Drink some water, swallow 'em whole! Jesus Christ, kid!"

**II: Liv**

So, I guess Eddie takes me down to the docks to work because he don't trust me anyplace else.

Not that I blame him a whole helluva lot.

This shit about getting my shit together and not having my Troubles and having Eddie finish my training, it fucking sucks a lot worse than I thought it would.

For one thing, I didn't realise what a pathetic fucking drunk I was until I decided to slow down. Holy Christ, was I sick there, for awahile. Now I don't feel so bad, but I'm pissed off all the time. All I can think about is how much I need a fucking drink, and how much I'd like to kill somebody, yunno, anybody, when I can't have one.

For another, the man has no fucking interest in me, as a woman.

I mean, I can see that.

I'm not a real feminine kind of chick. I never figured out all that smile and be alluring shit. Honestly, I never met a man who was a better man than I was before I met Eddie, if I wanted to ball a guy I let him know and if he was too scared I laughed at him, if he didn't want me I didn't care and if he wanted to fuck, we fucked.

Eddie, now, he's a different story. I mean, I gotta work with the man. And if he turns me down, yunno, the way I feel, I might go fuckin' crazy, and he could really hurt me.

That's the other thing.

I never met anybody before who could kick my ass.

I'm pretty sure I could fuck him up pretty good, too, and if I could get him on the ground, I know I could take him, but, yeah, Eddie could kick my ass.

I don't know. I never met a man like him. The day he sat me there on his couch and just told it to me like it was, man, that was some heavy shit. I still don't know how he could tell just what I was feeling, just what I was thinking inside my head.

Especially the part about the itch.

That fuckin' itch. It started itchin' me just a little when I was about 12 years old, and the goddamn thing got worse and worse and worse every day until it's like a goddamn third degree burn, blazing and burning and itching.

It keeps me up at night, that fuckin' itch, and it leads me out at night to go and do the crazy shit I do, and all that shit, it scratches it a little, kind of feels good and eases that raw, burning itch, but not much, not much at all and before long the itch is back, ten times, tem million fuckin' times worse than it ever was before.

You can't get too close to people, when you got an itch like this. It keeps you away from them. The itch gets bigger and the world gets smaller and most of the time you're all alone with it, just you and the itch.

I'm not just talking about fucking. Fucking is part of it, a goddamn big part of it, but it's not just an itch for fucking. It's and itch for everything and it can't be scratched, and now that I'm not drinking as much, sometimes I feel like I'm gonna go out of my mind.

It's worse at night, cos I like the night, it's when I'm really on the ball. When I'm out there workin', walkin' up and down the docks with Eddie.

Jesus, you don't know how I feel, I'm telling you.

Sometimes I just stumble along behind him and I don't know where I'm going, I can't see. I can't see the moon, even when it's there, and I can't smell the river and the garbage, and I can't feel the cracked pavement under my feet.

It's just me and Eddie and the goddamn itch, and I'm following after him like a bitch in heat.

Sometimes I get a good look at him in a certain way when the reflection of the dingy streetlight catches the thick cigar smoke curling around his mask and his black leather armour as the light splashes off the pool of dog piss and gasoline he'd just tromped through and I see him grinning at nothing in particular and I feel like somebody opened up my guts with a rusty sharpened screwdriver and that their busting out of my belly onto the pavement, even though I'm desperately trying to hold them in.

I want that man so bad I can taste the way he smells in my mouth.

I remember when he opened that fucking hatch and jumped out of Archie and I saw the crowd close over him and I thought, shit, Liv, there he goes, wave goodbye, he ain't coming back. I couldn't stand it, I couldn't take it, I had to save him or I had to go out there and die with him and fuck me if I knew why then, and fuck me, sideways if I know why, now.

But I gotta take it, that gut-busting pain, and I keep on walking along and the goddamn itch is fucking burning me and I feel light-headed from lust and violence and that need a drink need a drink feeling, and I swear I just want to lie down on the concrete and smack my head against it until my brains squirt out.

Either that or I want to jack Eddie up against the nearest wall and I don't care if I have to get down on my bare knees on broken glass or lie down in the street in the same, sometimes I feel like if I can't have him I'll kill one of us, or maybe both of us, and like Mick Jagger said, I have to turn my head until my darkness goes.

The man doesn't even notice I'm a goddamn woman.

Not that I can blame him. The only thing I do that women do is fuck. I may look like a woman, but I don't talk like one, or think like one, or act like one, or even dress like one. All Eddie ever sees me do is run around covered in blood or motor oil cursing and beating the shit out of people and playing pool and having a goddamn drink, and he's not like the other cats I've met , he's not too scared to not fuck me to just fuck me and get it over with.

And short of putting a gun to his head and telling him to take off his clothes, I don't know how the fuck to make him come across.

I guess I gotta act like a girl.

I'm not sure how to act like a girl, but I got that sleazy costume, so, maybe if I put it on and bend over to pick up my car keys, I'll get lucky.

I'd better.

Cos it ain't gonna be pretty when I get to the end of my fucking rope, not for either of us.

**III: Eddie**

Then, there was her costume trouble.

Holy Christ.

He had already told her that a painted up second-hand boiler suit was no kind of fucking costume.

And that bullet-proof vest she had should have been in a museum.

She had the money to get a better suit, why the fuck didn't she use it?

But, that formal costume she'd spent her money on was even worse.

She had a full face mask, with the top like a jester's hat, bells and all. The rest of it consisted of a leotard that was so low cut in the front it answered his question as to whether her tits were real, a pair of black high heel calf-high boots, a little chequered pleated schoolgirl skirt that barely covered the bottom half of the leotard, thigh high stockings in three different colours and garters.

All of the sudden, she had herself all packaged up to look like a woman, and the kid was a real knockout.

Sure, he liked the costume. He liked the costume so much he wished he hadn't been wearing his costume, as he immediately had a painful accident with his dick and his body armour.

Still, as a costume for working in, it wasn't good for shit.

"Jesus Christ, kid, where are you goin'? To a sex show?"

"Don'cha like it?"

"Yeah. I like it. Lemme see it a little closer."

She was fast, but she wasn't fast enough, caught off guard to stop him wrenching her arm around her back and bending her over.

She started trembling, trembling all over, shaking like a leaf, and she threw him off, violently.

The Comedian almost fell over.

There she goes, blowing hot and cold again. If Eddie didn't already know better, he swore he'd just hold the crazy bitch down and fuck her.

But he wasn't so stupid as to make the same mistake twice, especially not with a woman who wouldn't hesitate to kill him, and shoot him if she couldn't do it with her bare hands.

"What the fuck are you doing? You know I once killed a guy, trying that shit on me!" she roared.

"Relax, kid. I'm not gonna do anything to ya! The question is, what the fuck are you doing? Are you wearing anything under that thing?"

"Who wants to know?"

The kid was still pissed off.

She had this funny, crazy look on her face like she might do anything, and Eddie wanted to take a step away from her, but instead he got in her face and screamed at her.

"Reader's fuckin' Digest. Just answer the goddamn question!" Eddie barked.

"No. So what?"

"So what? So that means any fuckin' piece of trash in the world can do whatever he wants with you. You can't kill 'em all, kid. What if there's ten or fifteen of 'em? What have you got to protect yourself? A little strip of cloth, here?"

Eddie put his hand between her legs, not touching her, and snapped his fingers.

The kid thought otherwise.

"Hey, leave my snaps alone, Eddie! You scared the shit outa me and I ain't in the mood, now. Jesus."

Snaps?

"Snaps? The fuckin' thing opens with snaps?" the Comedian managed to say.

"Yeah. I mean, what if I have to piss?"

Snaps. That was it.

The Comedian had an extremely vivid metal picture of hauling the kid back over to him, tearing those three snaps open, unfastening his codpiece and solving her problem of not having a man to keep her happy.

Then, he remembered the sex freak, the murderer who tried something on her that she didn't like, and how they couldn't find his cock and his balls at the crime scene, and didn't locate them until the autopsy, when they found them jammed all the way down his throat.

Eddie let her go.

"Un-fucking believable. What you mean is that you know you'll have to piss because you're drunk all the time, and what if you're beating the shit out of some punk and you decide he's not bad looking and you'd like to fuck him before you finish beating him up. And what about those boots? Start running."

"In these? I'll kill myself. And my tits will fall out of this get-up. Not to mention they'll hurt like a motherfucker. No support in this thing."

"Great costume, kid. What's to stop six guys from gang banging you and leaving you in a puddle to die?"

She looked at him real cocky-like, the old, fuck you I'm from East New York cocky.

"I'd like to see them try it."

"Oh yeah?"

Eddie pulled her gun out of the holster on her belt and put it to her head.

"Okay, Bruce Lee. So you can kill a guy with your bare hands. Try it now. Keeping in mind if you move, I pull the trigger and your brains are all over the wall. You get me?"

"Christ, Eddie, if you were a real badguy, I got ten ways I could have your ass on the ground, already. Now quit horsin' around with my piece, it's loaded, yunno."

He put a gun to her head and the kid didn't even flinch.

She was one stone cold motherfucker.

"Hey, kid, better me than somebody else. You want your costume to say, "Don't fuck with me, I'll kill you, not, "One of you at a time or all of you together." Nobody's gonna take you seriously in that shit. Look at Sally Jupiter. She didn't want to be an underwear model, she wanted to be a superhero. In that costume of hers, everybody took one look at her and thought she was easy. They found out otherwise, but still. Take it from me, I'm the bad guy, right? You got a good general idea with your usual costume but get a good pair of combat boots you haven't painted up, and a canvas boiler suit ain't no protection at all. You need serious body armor. A new bullet-proof vest, for one thing. You're alright for your weapons, but you really, really, really need to fuckin' armor up. That's what you get hurt so much. Not enough protection. You don't see Bruce runnin' around in just tights and a cape. Clark does, but he's fuckin' invincible. Bruce wears more armour that Fort Knox. And look at me? Do I have my balls hangin' out? Fuck no, I got more armor in this costume than two Fort Knoxes. This ain't the Lookit My Tits and Fuck Me, Daddy show, okay?"

For a minute there, Eddie thought she was going to break his nose, but she reached inside a pocket on her belt and took out a little notebook and a pencil.

"Lemme write that down. Couldja repeat that? Especially the part about the lookit my tits and fuck me, daddy show. I gotta tell the guy who makes my costume that specification. Jesus, you think I wear this thing to work in? I don't. It's just for, yunno, promotional purposes. And Wednesdays. Logan likes it." She said.

"Yeah, I can see why. Go change your clothes, wiseass. And remember what I told youse about your workin' costume. That wasn't a suggestion, it was a fuckin' order!"

Eddie watched every swing of her hips and twitch of her ass as she left the room.

He could feel his balls turning blue, but he had already been to the "I'm gonna go change my clothes" party, and he wasn't about to make the same mistake twice.

Not with a stone cold killer, at any rate.

After the kid left the room, the Comedian went over to his bar and had a few slugs of whiskey right out of the bottle.

She was getting to him. He wasn't used to having anybody around who could kick his ass, let alone somebody who might kill him on the spin of a dime, and a broad at that.

And if she was so goddamn mean and dangerous and bad, why the hell was he so goddamn hot to fuck her?

Right back to the Crimebusters meeting.

What made her different from every other broad he ever met, that he could take or leave and never give a second thought to?

Was it because he was responsible for her, because he'd seen her grow up, because she was his friend's daughter and his daughter's friend?

Probably because she was mean, and dangerous, and bad, and she was a pretty little redheaded Irish girl who was built like a brick shithouse.

The kind of broad who was made to be fucked, and fucked often, and Eddie wanted to be the man do the fucking.

The one who wouldn't just get up and wipe his dick on the curtains and leave when he was done.

Things were getting dangerous. She was getting to him. Her going around with Jimmy didn't bother him, but the idea of her lying down with any other man besides him filled Eddie with rage.

He had already started to think of the kid as his girl, and if she was his girl, he wasn't going to be a one woman man and she sure wasn't a one man woman, but as long as he wasn't involved at all, it was driving him crazy.

There was hellfire in her, and he knew that mixing it with the hellfire in him was a bad idea, but he was getting to the point where he didn't care.

Eddie realised he still had the bottle in his hand, and he took another drink.

"I gotta be nuts. Getta hold of yourself, Eddie, this is serious shit. You're responsible for her, she's your problem. Quit thinkin' with your dick instead of your brain. You wanna lose your whole head just to get a little piece of tail? We're talking about Jack's kid, here. She could turn on a dime and fucking shoot me while my back is turned. Or when I'm sleeping. What about the Troubles? Jimmy can joke about the time she was drunk and didn't realise it was him and shot him in the head, but if you ain't Wolverine, that shit ain't funny. Until that kid goes to rehab and gets that beast in her under control, you better keep your dick in your pants if you want to keep it."

He took yet another drink.

"This ain't gonna end up well." He muttered.


	3. Ace Of Spades

**Chapter Three: Ace of Spades**

**Trivelino Mac's, Bensonhurst, Brooklyn**

**I: Liv**

You know what they say about the light at the end of the tunnel?

No, not the light when you're dying, and all that shit.

I hope there is no afterlife, because I know where I'm going if there is.

I mean like when you're going through bad, dark, times, and low, evil places, where it's always ten minutes past midnight and nobody can hear you scream.

People tell you, "Oh well, if you keep going, you'll see light at the end of the tunnel."

Yeah, right.

I went down into the pit when I was 16 years old, and the reasons I did it then seem so fucking stupid to me now that I can't tell you why I started, but I can tell you it's my goddamn job and I'm not about to quit, but I never saw any hint of fucking light.

Not until a couple of months ago.

And that light, it's so fucking bright, and I been in the dark so long, I'm blinded.

I know the Troubles are getting worse.

I know the only way to stop them is for me to get a hold of myself, and I know the only way for me to get a hold on myself is to quit drinking so much, and if I want to do that I'll probably have to go to rehab.

I'm not stupid.

I've known that for years.

But I never had a reason to quit, before.

You know what it's like to be me?

I guess I could start with telling you about the pain, that's something everybody understands.

Now I got no superpowers, and I ain't a real big son of a bitch. I'm five foot two, without my boots on, and I weigh a buck forty five. I'm pretty solid, and I'm pretty strong, and I know about 25 ways to kill a or completely disable a man with my bare hands and I've used them all, not to mention all the martial arts and fighting techniques I know, the hardware I carry, and what a truly mean, evil, brutal son of a bitch I am when that rage comes up in me, but let me tell you, I been hurt.

Bad.

And when I wake up every morning, it all hurts at once.

Whiskey's good for that.

Not to mention, I got fuckin' problems. Head problems. I been to shrinks who have diagnosed me with half the diseases in the book, and even Charlie Xavier threw up his hands and told Pop that until I let down some of my defences, there was no way even he could help me sort out the jigsaw puzzle of bullshit in my head. I mean, my father's a supervillain. I spent half my childhood in hiding in East New York. My mother died right in front of me, when I was two or three years old, and my father told me to keep her a secret, like she never existed at all.

Like whoever got to her would come after me if I opened my mouth.

I got no idea how it happened, and nobody will tell me, and I get the feeling I'm glad I don't know.

And I been a fuckin' outcast all my life.

Even among freaks, I'm a freak.

All that shit?

It hurts too.

But whiskey's good for that.

The worst part of it is, my heart ain't been in the job since the Brooklyn Slasher. That killed me. I', pretty sure if I idn't bug outa here, go north, and meet up with Logan, and ave that crazy advebture we had, I would have died in the Summer of '70.

As it is, things ain't good. I mean, it's a joke. I'm a joke, every mask, on both sides of the cape, the whole thing is a big fucking joke. But what the fuck am I gonna do about that, now? Quit? Switch sides? Let everybody in New York who don't have anybody but a crazy drunken little Mick like me to look after them down?

So, I keep going.

Kinda like a junkie.

He started doing smack because he wanted to, and now he can't live without it, because he's s fucking junkie.

And I'm a fucking mask.

So, I wake up, pour whiskey in my coffee, eat a donut, fill up my flask, chew up a few Tylenols and Excedrins, and go to work.

I like working with Jon. He doesn't ask me a bunch of questions about how I am. He knows, and he keeps his mouth shut about it. The only time Jon asks me how I'm doing is if I'm visibly bleeding or falling on my ass.

Knock off work, go eat lunch, have a few drinks. Already been taking nips from the flask all morning. Go to class, catch a nip or two more when nobody's looking. Go home. Hope Pop and Dick ain't too worried. Eat dinner. Have a few more drinks.

Fill up the flask, chew an Excedrin or a Tylenol or three, suit up, go out in the street.

Get shot, get beat up, get stabbed, get beat with a piece of rebar, hit with a trash can lid, a lead pipe, chains, a piece of brick, anything.

Shoot some guy in the face, cut somebody's throat. Punch him in the nose, drive his brains up into his skull. Cut him, stab him, hit him with a piece of rebar, hit him with a trash can lid, a lead pipe, chains, a piece of brick, anything.

Fight one guy, three guys, ten guys.

Breakin' noses and jaws and ribs, pulping faces, bruising kidneys, beating and getting beat.

Walk away, stagger away, crawl away, leave 'em bleeding, leave 'em dying, leave 'em running, leave 'em dead.

At least somebody got some justice.

Somebody's kid won't grow up to be a drunk and a whore and a killer.

Like me.

Go to my flop at Mac's.

Clean up, maybe tape a couple fingers together, put some clips over a scratch or two. Wipe the blood off my face. On a bad night, roll an Ace bandage around my ribs. Tape up my nose, move it around till it goes back in place.

Take a shower, take a piss, don't worry if you piss a little blood, in a few days those kidneys will be right as rain.

Change clothes.

Hit a bar, maybe Mac's, maybe not. Have a few more drinks. Pick up some guy, take him to the car, get some action.

Some nights, drive home, too fast.

If I'm too fucked up, or beat too bad, I stay at Mac's.

Don't want Pop and Dick to worry.

Take a bath, in real hot water, chew some more Excedrin, have another drink.

Go to bed.

Sleep like a corpse.

Wake up.

Do it again.

And again.

And again.

And again.

Until life is nothing but an endless merry go round of pain, violence, bullshit and suffering.

Do unto badguys before they do unto you or anybody else.

You see why I drink so much?

I know, I know, I chose this life, but what the hell else was I going to do with this fucking rage that comes up in me? Better I took it out on criminal pieces of shit who deserve it, and on myself, because it's mine, ain't it, than innocent people.

Decent people.

But Napalm, you bring justice to the dregs of society!

They ain't the dregs.

I know the dregs.

The people I work for, they're just the people in the end of the pool where the shit floats and the sharks swim. All the kids who come to hang out and be hippies or make it in showbiz or go to college, they're all prey. And the freaks and outcasts of all shapes and sizes and from every walk of life and social class and every part of the city, who can't or won't trust the society that spit on them and threw them away a long time ago. And the forgotten people, bums and junkies and hookers and poor people who live crowded into the same tenements their grandparents and great grandparents lived in, cowering under the yoke of the mob and every other slob and two-bit criminal motherfucker who runs the slums, nobody gives a fuck for them.

Except me. I do.

They all know, everybody in New York knows, if you want justice, call the Harlequin.

I get the job done.

You know what?

All of those people, even a homeless street junkie who sells his ass for money to buy dope, they're decent people, compared to me.

To tell you the truth, I haven't given a damn if I lived or if I died since I was, Jesus, I don't know, probably16 years old.

I got that beat out of me in the first month I was working, by two punks with a piece of rebar.

Yeah, I'm leavin' out any good times I might have, but all I do on my nights off is get drunk, fight in bars, get laid, waste time with Paulie and my other crazy friends, drive too fast, wreck the car. It's all the same.

Glad and sorry, happy and sad, it's all a drink and a wink and a smile and a nod and the gun and the knife and the fist and the boot and maybe a screw and fuck me?

No, fuck you.

So, you can imagine I never saw that light, hell, I didn't even believed it existed.

But the Troubles, they make me more than an avatar of entropy; they make me the sword of chaos and destruction.

I want to destroy everything, and I usually do.

And it's getting worse.

Last time I had the Troubles, I shot Logan in the face.

I don't fucking remember doing this, of course.

As far as I know, I woke up in my bed smelling blood and gunpowder after being passed out for I didn't know how long, and Logan was lying there on the floor, and he was so quiet, still and cold I was almost sure I killed him.

I dragged him up into the bed with me, blood and all, and he was so quiet, still and cold and I just hung onto him until the life came back into him; I was praying to God that it would.

But he lived, because he's Logan.

My stepfather, my brother, my friends, they wouldn't be so lucky.

Neither would Eddie.

Now, here they are again, three months later.

Only three months later.

And I'll bet it's Eddie the Troubles want, just like they wanted Logan.

They want to destroy everything, especially me.

Eddie's my teacher.

He's my friend.

Goddamn it, Eddie's the light.

That big, mean, bad son of a bitch is my fate.

I can't let the Troubles put him out.

So I gotta get through this night.

If I try to get him to help me, the Troubles will take him; I know they will, I can feel it.

It's only a few more steps to the door.

Never should have gone out, in the shape I'm in.

Should have just stayed here at Mac's, and had a few drinks at the bar.

What the fuck was I thinking?

Jesus, I hope that girl got away alright.

She's never gonna forget this night, but at least I stopped them from rapin' her.

All they got to do was tear up her clothes, and scare the shit out of her.

At least she got away.

She won't end up like me.

I hope Jim Gordon could understand me on the phone, gonna have to check tomorrow.

Did I tell him there were three guys, or four?

I don't even know, myself.

It's all the same.

Right now, I have to get through tonight.

Better use the back stairs, no sense getting Uncle Mac all bent out of shape.

He'll call the hospital, and I don't want the hospital.

I know my ribs are bruised, maybe even sprung, or cracked because it hurts to move and it hurts to breathe, and I pushed my nose back into place but I think it's broken, and I'm sick from swallowing so much blood.

Pretty sure one of them was dead.

The one I got on the ground.

Almost like when I first started, and those three guys got me on the ground and beat me with pieces of rebar.

Never let anybody get you on the fuckin' ground, you're dead.

I think I'm sick, anyway, got a bad cough, a touch of something, nasty shit coming up with the brown dried blood. But if I can get to my flop above the bar, if I can get to the shower and clean myself up, bandage my nose, I got some Tylenol-3 and some penicillin in the medicine cabinet.

If.

Today's secret word is Maybe I Can.

I'm no junkie. I don't like the hard stuff, but it's only a little codeine and I'm hurting so goddamn bad.

I just need a shower and some medicine, a little hot tea with whiskey in it, and a good night's sleep.

They'll be over soon, the Troubles, but I have to stay here, tough it out.

Maybe Jon can help me.

I can't do anything that would hurt the Doc.

Where's my bracelet to sound that buzzer?

He could teleport me back to the lab, get that night doctor to see me.

Christ, where is it?

I never take it off, what the fuck is wrong with me?

Why do I do this shit to myself?

Never mind.

No strength to look for the son-of-a-bitch.

I don't need help.

I been hurt worse than this.

I can't put out my light.

I don't want to go back, alone, into the dark.

I can't.

If I gotta die here, like this, fuck it.

Whatever will be, will be.

**I: Eddie**

Another phone call in the middle of the night.

Maybe it was the kid, she was AWOL, this week.

"What?"

"Eddie? It's, ah, it's Jon. I'd like to come and talk to you, if you're not busy."

"Doc? Yeah, sure. Just put your shorts on, alright."

"Fine."

The Doc was in his living room in a flash of blue light, and he had a worried look on his face.

"You're worried? What the fuck's going on? Is the world ending?"

"Only for one person. I've known Liv since she was 16. And since she always comes to the lab on time, no matter what, unless she's bedridden, I've seen her in all sorts of bad shape. And it keeps getting worse. And worse. And worse. One day, she won't show up at all, because she'll be lying dead in an alley full of garbage and blood, surrounded by the corpses of the men who killed her. Or Bruce, or Mac, or maybe even her own father, the Joker, will find her dead in her bed one morning. Choked on vomit while she was drunk. Or maybe her body will just give out, under the strain. I knew her before every worthless criminal punk in the city beat every last trace of hope, or humanity out of her, and so did you. You could see, she wasn't the same, that's what moved you to try to help her. I've sat by and watched both of them, hope and humanity, leave her. A little bit. Every day. There's nothing I can do about it. And it's not because I'm remote and distant. Even I can't be remote and distant from Liv. The pain and the rage in that woman is so palpable, it touches even me, in what's left of my humanity. There's nothing anyone could ever do about it. Just try and make things pleasant for her, give her a nice, quiet place to die. Then, you stepped in."

"And I made it worse?"

"Worse? Just the opposite. You've made her want to live. There's been a change in her. I only came here to tell you that whatever you're doing for Liv, don't stop doing it. If you do, that girl is going to die. And I don't want that."

The Comedian was surprised.

Surprised by what the Doc said, and surprised that it was him who said it.

He had a point, though.

Even after only three months of him training her, Liv was showing a great improvement.

She wasn't drinking during working hours, anymore, and she had a version of her boiler suit made in canvas, and Kevlar, with reinforced panels where he told her she needed to armor up, and a new bulletproof vest.

Not to mention the kid pretty much did what he said, on the job, at least.

He found the Bat and Sally had trained her well, she was a good detective as well as a good fighter, and she thought fast on her feet and didn't give him lip in action situations.

The kid was shaping up to be a good mask, a good potential partner, maybe even a good friend.

And Eddie didn't have a lot of friends, because he trusted next to nobody.

But there was something about the girl, he knew he could trust her.

His girl.

The kid wanted to be his girl, whether she knew it or not, and she probably didn't.

She didn't seem to know much that you couldn't find in a book.

A kid like that could break your fucking heart, no matter how black it was.

He wondered if he was the only one who figured out she was a hopeless drunk because she was sitting on top of a lifetime of misery, bullshit and abuse.

Nobody gave a shit about her.

Maybe Jimmy, and Sal, and Paulie and Laurie, and the Bat, and her Old Man, but none of them could ever seem to do anything for her.

She was too far gone; like the Doc said. She had hidden it from them so well that when they did notice she was in a bad way it was too late.

But their fellow masks, Jesus, they looked at the kid like she was a fucking supervillain like her father. The day she died out there in the street they'd all breathe a big sigh of relief.

That was where the abuse came in.

Most of them too chickenshit to go out in the street and do the dirty work, Eddie knew all about that, but for them to leave it to a kid, to a woman, and then turn their backs and say oh, well?

Let them cut her throat and break her bones, beat her and shoot her and cut her and stab her, she's nothing, she's garbage, besides, she's tough, she can take it.

Tough?

He was tough.

Jimmy was tough.

Ben Grimm and the Hulk, they were tough.

She was just a little girl.

Misery and abuse and bullshit.

Kid had no mother, and even if she was lucky enough not to remember how Merrie Napier died, right in front of her, she was only two, and something she couldn't learn from Batman was how to be a woman.

You never met a woman who knew less about being a woman than the kid.

And, as for being trained by Sal, she probably took one look at how her life and her "Lookit My Tits, Daddy" act panned out for her and said, fuck that noise.

Yeah, Sal was a pretty tough broad, but still, she had a good handle on being a broad.

The kid, though, she was a real piece of work. The only thing about her that was like a woman was that she fucked men.

A lot of men.

None of whom, except Mac's grease monkey kid, Joe Mac, and Jimmy seemed to take any more than a passing interest in her.

And even Jimmy could only take her in small doses.

It stuck in Eddie's head, Jimmy telling her that the kid was like a mad dog who had been beaten and kicked too many times.

A little kindness, a little tenderness, he said.

The way he saw it, he was the only guy to ever think she needed it.

Shit, everybody needs to be treated decent, like they're a fucking human being, don't they? She was tough, and she was hard as nails, and it never occurred to her that nobody's life should be a string of shootings and beatings, strung together on a series of cheap fucks from mean ugly drunken loudmouths in bars, swimming around in the endless supply of booze that you poured down your throat to make your whole rotten, stinking joke of a fucking piece of shit life bearable.

Jesus, not even his life was as lousy as that.

And it was no life for a woman to lead.

But, then again, sometimes Eddie thought she didn't have a good handle on being a civilised person, let alone a broad.

She did a lot of the kinda things Logan did.

Sniffing things.

Sniffing every goddamn thing.

Her food, the air, people.

And she howled at the moon.

All the time.

Jimmy only did that when he was really drunk.

Kid talked a blue streak, but sometimes she just made these funny noises, almost like animal noises, and it was worrying Eddie that he was beginning to know what they meant.

Then again, she'd leave these books lying around, science books, and when Eddie picked them up and looked at them, shit, they might as well have been written in Chinese.

History books, too, all kinds of books, big, thick books. She had a book on the Big One that he thought looked good and it took him a week to read it.

The kid said she read it in one night.

She was like two or three people, and you never knew which one, or combination of them you were going to get on which day.

The only thing all of them were clear on was that they were hungry, they were horny, they wanted to sniff everything, and they wanted to be his girl.

She needed him.

He was the only good thing, the only ray of fucking sunshine in her miserable, filthy, whiskey-sodden life of brutality and disillusionment.

Him.

Eddie Blake.

The Comredian.

Jesus, that was a cosmic fucking joke.

Nobody ever stopped and taught the kid how to be a girl, having two fathers and no mother, and she sure as shit didn't pick it up on her own.

You'd figure she would have, most broads do.

What she picked up was how to be a man, a stand-up Brooklyn Irish thug, and then she learned how to be a mask over top of that.

But she really was a good kid, a nice kid.

` She still wore her hair in pigtails, sometimes, like she did when she was eleven years old, and she still had that thousand watt sunny smile, like a little imp.

And when she'd get drunk and blue, and call herself a drunk and a killer and a shanty Irish whore, it made Eddie want to go out and find every punk criminal, and piece of shit rummy and high-class, look down his nose son of a bitch that made her think it was true, and kill them with his bare hands.

When she came to him, the kid was lost, she was on the thin edge of losing her marbles or dying.

The Bat was right, he was her last chance.

"I can't go home, Eddie. I only go home on Sundays, now. I can't let Pop and Dick see me like this. I know they worry. I know Pop blames himself. He says he should have done more to protect me. He tried. I wouldn't let him. And he can't protect me from myself. I gotta go back out. I gotta."

The kid was funny like that, restless, especially at night.

Like she never wanted to get out of the street, like she had it in her stubborn red head that what she was lookin' for was out there, if only she could drink enough and fight enough to find it.

That was where she lived, out in the street.

Everyplace else was a warm place to flop when she was drunk and tired and beat to hell.

He started letting her sleep in his extra bedroom, joining the ranks of those who figured it was better to have her where you could keep an eye on her than God only knew where the fuck else.

Like Mac said, it was better to have the kid someplace where you could watch her. If she was going to stay awake half the night and drink all his booze and watch the late, late movie, it was better than her being out in the street, wandering around drunk after working hours and knocking somebody's face in, or getting her face knocked in.

She moved a couple of changes of clothes and shit like that in, but you could tell she wasn't plannin' on movin' in for good, just wanted to get her foot in the door.

She wasn't sure why.

But Eddie knew why.

It was because she wanted to be his girl, she understood he was the only son of a bitch big and bad enough to do her any good at all.

Kid was his responsibility, now.

Crazy kid.

She never even told him she was a S.H.I.E.L.D. Agent. Nick Fury called him and thanked him for taking on Liv as an apprentice, he was pretty sure they were going to lose a good, potentially great agent sooner rather than later.

Level 7.

Twenty-two, and an unpredictable drunk with a mean streak a mile wide, and she was a Level 7, already?

What was she going to do when she sobered up?

Eddie was hoping they would both be around to see.

"What's your point, Doc?"

"Liv hasn't been to work all week. And she hasn't called. Have you seen her?"

"No. And she didn't show up to see Jimmy, either."

"I've just spoken to Bruce. He hasn't seen or heard from her. He's gone out to look for her, in the street, in case she's lying somewhere, drunk, or hurt. I think we had better go to that room she stays in, over Trivelino Mac's, and I hope it's not too late."

"Jesus Christ! I'll get dressed."

***

They couldn't get her to answer the door of her flop at Trivelino Mac's.

Just before he broke the door in, Eddie wondered how the fuck he ended up in this kind of shit, but, it didn't matter, because he was in it, deep, and he crashed through the door with a gun in his hand, ready for anything.

Not ready for this.

"Have you ever seen anything like this?" the Doc asked him.

"Not since my father died."

The room was filthy, unimaginably fucking filthy, the kid had been holed up there for awhile. There was garbage and empties everywhere, the whole room stank to high heaven and it was a mess, like a bomb hit it, which was unlike the kid.

Having two Irish cleaning ladies for mother figures, she tried to keep things in pretty good order.

There was blood on the walls, smears of it, imprints of her hard little hands in blood, drips and spatters and little pools of dried blood on the floor.

"I hope that's not all Liv's blood. Liv? It's Jon. Are you here?"

Eddie started to feel just a little sick, inside.

"I shoulda come over here a few days ago. Dragged her ass outa here. Kid's my responsibility now."

_ I'll tell you who can protect you from yourself, kid._

_ Me._

She wasn't in the bed, which was soaked with piss, puke, and spilled whiskey.

"Jesus H. Christ! Hey kid? You in here? Liv? Hey, Liv?"

No reply.

He followed the trail into the bathroom.

There were two open prescription bottles on the sink, one for Tylenol-3 and one for amoxicillin, and a bloody washcloth in the drain, and a bloody towel on the floor.

The kid was in the bathtub, in her underwear, covered by the blanket from the bed, sweating and mumbling to herself in a feverish sleep.

Blood on her face, blood on her clothes and her body, dried and brown and ugly.

There was a bottle of Jack Daniels, mostly empty, right by the tub.

She had taped up her nose, bloody fingerprints all over the tape she had torn with her teeth, regular masking tape, and he could see where her face was black and blue and swollen around it.

"Jesus Christ."

At least she was still alive.

The Comedian put his gun away, reached into the bathtub and picked her up.

He left the dirty blanket behind, took off his shirt, and wrapped her up in it.

Just like before.

She was a little taller, not by much, and heavier than the time he had picked her up, out from under those basement stairs, but she hung onto him just the same way she had when she was a little girl.

Like she was never going to let go.

"Wha? Huh?"

"Stay still, kid. I gotcha."

"Jesus, Eddie, I don't feel so hot."

"I'm not surprised. I'm gonna take youse up to see Hank. He'll fix you up."

He came out of the bathroom.

"She made it. She's tough. You think you could zap us to the X-Mansion, Doc? The only doctor I really trust is Hank McCoy. He always fixes me up, and he'll get the kid on her feet again. That, and she'll be out of the city. Way out of the city. Jimmy can keep an eye on her, and make sure she stays that way, until she's better."

"That's a good idea. I won't be going with you, I have to get home to tell Laurie that her friend is still alive."

***

Most of Liv's problem was that she was incredibly drunk.

Beast diagnosed a broken nose, bruised ribs, and bronchitis.

Bruce Wayne was in agreement with the Comedian's plan to keep Liv far out of the city and away from the streets until she was better. She remained at the X-Mansion, under the watchful eyes of Wolverine and Beast. She was to rest for a few days, take her medicine, and ease up on the booze.

Then Beast sent her home to Eddie, telling the Comedian to keep an eye on her for another three or four days, and make sure she didn't go out and get into trouble.

Eddie found that the kid was pretty agreeable about it, probably because she wasn't feeling good enough to be otherwise.

He didn't send her home, he wanted to keep an eye on her, and at night, when he was out working, he had Edie come over and keep an eye on her.

Just in case, she got away from Edie, Bruce sent Dick to sit in a car across the street all night and make sure Liv didn't go over the wall.

Nobody asked him to, but Eddie kept seeing Rorschach making his way down the street every time he came back in the wee hours of the morning.

As for Liv, although she started drinking again, the kid was pretty meek and not hostile at all, and she didn't seem as drunk as she had been, so Eddie figured he was out of the woods.

After a couple of days passed, he figured she was alright on her own, and she went back home with the Bat.

They had all been told she'd be alright in a few days, so they started leaving her alone at night, and Liv behaved herself.

That night, as he was preparing for his night's work, Liv told her stepfather that she was going to the movies with Paulie.

Bruce called Eddie, who called Paulie, who said that yeah, he was going to the movies with Liv; he was going to drive out to Long Island to pick her up.

When he got there, he discovered her gone.

Something just came up.

**III: Liv**

Yeah, alright, you got me, I shoulda just gone to the movies with Paulie.

But this is the Friends or the Church of Humanity we're talking about, here.

I hate those cocksuckers.

I hate them worse than I hate anything in Hell or on Earth or out in fucking space, and I don't even know why.

All I know is that when I hear that they are up to something, it's like a third eye opens up in me, and all I can see is hellfire.

I just gotta rise up and go get 'em.

But, when I heard over the emergency frequency that they were down at the docks, in an abandoned warehouse, with a whole family of mutants, who they intended to, wait for it, burn at the stake, the flames rose up in me like they never did before.

I was fury, I was rage.

I didn't feel sick or tired or hurt anymore; I felt like the Angel of Death, like Valhalla, I am coming.

All the fire in Heaven and Hell both came up in me, and I strapped an Ace bandage around my ribs and I suited up and got my Tommy gun, and I got in my car and drove to the docks and I swear my feet didn't even touch the ground on the way.

I was there first.

Unluckily for them.

I kicked open the doors to that warehouse, and I saw them, there, in their special robes, and they had the woman and the men tied to a metal pole, and they were piling up wood around them, and they had a can of gas.

The kids were all screaming and crying.

I saw it, then, that thing I see in my worst nightmares.

A blackened skull, wreathed in flames, it's mouth hanging open, and somehow, it's still screaming.

That third eye opened wider than it ever had before, and everything else I was left me like it never even existed.

I was the Harlequin, and I was Hellfire and Damnation.

I opened up on those sons of bitches with the machine gun, I opened up low and shot out their knees, and I untied the adults and they grabbed the kids.

"Go outside. Save yourselves." I told them.

Because if it was fire these crazy pricks wanted, it was fire they were going to get.

I missed a few of them, and they came after me.

I guess they hurt me, because I could feel my blood running down the side of my face, but I didn't feel it.

I didn't shoot them when they came at me, I didn't try.

Every one that wasn't writhing in a pool of their own blood on the floor, they came at me and I killed them with my bare hands.

I think a few of them got out, crawled or ran out before I locked the doors.

He was hiding, though.

Their head man, their high priest.

John Stryker.

I recognised him; the man's one of S.H.I.E.L.D's Most Wanted.

So's his brother, his second-in-command, William.

I wish he'd been there that night.

But good old Johnny, founder of their Church, he's a murderer and a terrorist. He's killed not just mutants, but people who are families of mutants, friends of mutants, people who work with mutants or even live in the same building with a mutant.

Blew up an apartment building in Frisco, killed 500 people to get two mutants.

You know where he was?

Cowering under a pile of garbage.

He was blubbering and begging for his life as I marched him out of that pile of garbage.

Didn't try to stop me when I tied his hands behind his back, and he knelt when I told him to kneel.

Then, he saw the machete.

He didn't see it for long, because I cut off his head.

Murderers, all of them.

Cop killers, mask-killers, terrorists, murderers and child-killers and rapists.

I took hold of his head in one hand, and I got that gas can in the other, and I doused the place.

They had another gas can there, and I doused the people with that one, the living, the dying and the dead.

They were all going to go together, to meet their father in Hell.

That's what their church is.

Then, I had a smoke, and when I was done, I tossed the butt in the gasoline.

They all screamed like one scream.

I ducked out the door and shut it tight behind me.

Out there, in the front was the X-Jet and the X-Men, and Eddie was there, and so was Pop.

The mutant family was safe, and the ones who ran out, the badguys, the X-Men had them.

Just as I was coming down the front steps from the warehouse, the windows blew out and you could see the fire, and hear the screams from inside.

Those Family members who had survived, you could hear them screaming, too.

Me?

Oh, I was laughing.

Laugh, laugh, I thought I'd die.

I held their Chief's head, with the surprised look on his face, I held it high above my head in one hand, by his lousy brush cut hair and I laughed.

They call themselves a church?

I laid some religion on them.

"Behold a pale horse: and his name that sat on him was Death, and Hell followed with him." I said.

And I laughed, and I laughed, and the flames jumped up higher and higher.

That's when I got this feeling.

This weird feeling of complete serenity, and total peace.

Like I had come full circle in my life, like there was nothing left for me to do.

All the sudden, I cared again, about what I did, and I understood why I did it.

It was the weirdest thing.

All the pain left my body, and all my trouble, and I didn't feel like a drunk and a whore and a killer anymore, I felt like I did when I was just a kid, before I became what I am, today.

That fire just burned it out of me, burned me all new and pure and clean.

This was it, my shot at redemption.

I turned around, and I saw that fire, jumping up into the air, and I started to walk back up the steps.

**III: Eddie**

Eddie was on his way home from balling some mask groupie broad, at her apartment in Queens when it came over his radio that the Church of Humanity had a whole extended family of mutants, and their children locked in a building on the waterfront, and they were up to their old tricks again, but this time they had a mass burning planned

While he was on his way there, it came over that the Harlequin had got to the scene, first, and that all the mutants and their children were safe, but she was locked in the warehouse with the Family people.

When he got to the scene, the X-Men had just got there, and there were Church of Humanity members running out, some of them crawling out on bullet-riddled legs, screaming to the X-Men, to their enemies, to save them.

Batman showed up then, and also Cap and Iron Man.

These bastards were hardened fucking criminals, and crazy religious whackos, and anti-American extremist mutant-killing nutjobs. Some of them had death sentences on their heads.

They were terrorists, murderers, cop-killers, kid-killers, mask-killers, rapists, and they were so terrified, they weren't trying to flee from justice, they were screaming and begging their enemies to save them.

Because they were trying to flee from Trivelino J. Napier.

You could hear the screams inside the warehouse even from outside.

And then they all saw the fire.

Just as the windows blew out, releasing flames and screams into the night air, the kid came out.

She had not been at the movies with Paulie.

Indeed, you could readily have convinced Eddie, an extremely lapsed Irish Catholic who went to Church on Christmas, and Easter and made a yearly confession to a nervous priest on Good Friday, at his family's urging, in the slim hope of evading Hell, that Liv had just come from there, where she had thrown down with the Devil, himself.

There was so much blood on her costume that all of it couldn't have been hers, but a good deal of it was, because there was blood running freely down the side of her face; the left side of her hair was wet with it; she reeked of booze and blood and the stink of death.

Her costume was ripped and he could see bruises developing through the holes, especially along her ribs.

The whole left side of her face was purple and swollen up where she had her eye bashed , the socket was shattered like glass, and her head was cracked open.

But she was laughing, laughing just like the Joker himself, crazier, maybe, laughing and holding a severed human head in her bloody hand, high in the air.

It was S.H.I.E.L.D's Most Wanted.

John Stryker, head of the Church of Humanity.

The Family people screamed, they gibbered, some of them pissed themselves in fear.

And the kid laughed even harder.

"Behold a pale horse: and his name that sat on him was Death, and Hell followed with him." She yelled.

And she threw the head at them.

It bounced down the stairs and rolled a little ways and stopped right by Beast's foot.

"That's him, alright." He said.

Jimmy picked it up and took a good look at it.

"Yeah. That's the son of a bitch!"

He spit in the head's face, and threw it back on the ground.

Eddie was looking for something to put it in, to prove to Nick they got the cocksucker, then he heard the Bat screaming for Liv to stop, and he looked up and saw she was going back towards the flaming warehouse.

She wasn't laughing, anymore.

Eddie didn't know how he got there so fast, but he was right in front of her before she knew it.

"Hey! Snap out of it, kid! What the fuck do you think you're doing?"

Up close, she looked worse, he didn't know how she was on her feet, and he didn't know how much of a chance she had to make it, but he was determined she was going to get it.

"What the fuck is the matter with you? You don't wanna die like those fuckin' dogs, do ya?"

"It's my last chance, Eddie. If I die now, I die clean."

"You're talkin' crazy, kid! You gotta helluva knock on the head."

"Bullshit. You know what I'm talkin' about, Eddie."

"You wanna burn, kid? Is that the way you wanna go?"

"Not really. Then just shoot me, Eddie. Shoot me in the fuckin' head, please. Better you than a stranger, right? I ain't gonna make it, anyhow., And even if I do, Jesus, Eddie, I can't live like this anymore! I'd rather die now, right now, die clean, after I did somethin' good and decent. I can't fuckin' stand it anymore! You don't know what it fuckin' feels like!"

"Yes I do, kid. That's why they gave youse to me."

Then, just when he though it couldn't get worse, the kid made this horrible, wet, wheezing sound, and then she started to cough.

It was a real wet, deep cough, the kind that made her whole body shake, and she had her hands over her bruised ribs, shaking and coughing, hanging onto the railing.

Eddie had to hold her up, so that she wouldn't fall down, and when she got done coughing, she spit up a big wad of shit that was yellow and green and bloody, and there was bright red blood on her lips.

She put her hand to her lips, looked at the blood on her fingers, and lost it.

"Oh shit! I'm dead! I'm fuckin' dead! My ribs are stickin' in my fuckin' lungs! Jesus, Eddie, you gotta shoot me! I don't wanna drown in my own blood! Please! Put me outa my fuckin' misery! You don't know, nobody fuckin' knows, I been dead for years, ya don't know! It hurts, Eddie. Every fucking second of every fucking minute of every fucking day. Please. Let me die."

The Comedian didn't just put his gun down, he tossed it away like it was burning a hole through his hand.

Jesus Christ, whoever did this to this kid, whoever he was, whoever they was, wherever they are, I'll kill them all.

"You ain't dyin, kid, you understand me? You're mine, now. They gave you to me, and I tell you what you fuckin' do, and what you don't fuckin' do, and I'm tellin' you, I ain't lettin' you die!"

"You gonna save me, Eddie?"

"That's right, kid. I'm gonna save you."

A long moment fluttered by.

"Okay, Eddie." She said.

He picked her up, again.

Carried her over to where Beast was already rushing towards him, pushing a stretcher.

"Put her down. Okay, people, let's get the wounded into the Jet, and let's go! Cap, I think you're going to have to take care of the prisoners." Hank was saying.

"I've called for back up. Help is on the way. Bruce, you go ahead with Liv. You too, Eddie. She needs you."

Eddie and the Bat watched her disappear with Hank McCoy pushing her on a stretcher through the swinging doors of the infirmary, and in the white lights in the hallway, her blood all over both of them looked very red, indeed.

***

They kept a vigil, him and the Bat and Logan, sitting, pacing, smoking, swearing at the television, waiting.

Waiting.

Then, Hank came into the room.

"The good news is that our heroine is still alive, and she's going to stay that way. It was touch and go for awhile, but Napalm's one tough customer. Even better, she's not going to lose her sight in that eye with the shattered socket. She'll be wearing a patch for awhile, though. The wound in her head looked a lot worse than it was; her scalp was split open but her skull wasn't fractured and there was no brain injury. And she wasn't bleeding from her ribs puncturing her lungs, only two were cracked, and that was a hairline crack in the ones that were already injured. Now for the bad news. She's had a lot of bruising along the rib cage, though, and the blood in her sputum is because she has pneumonia. In both lungs. And she's suffering from one of the worst cases of alcohol poisoning I've ever seen. I ran her blood tests twice because I couldn't believe the alcohol content. I've never seen, I've never heard of anyone with a BAC that high who isn't dead. I've got her fever down, now, it was raging when she came in here. We're getting steroids, antibiotics and fluids in her with an IV, so she's doing much better. Especially with all that swelling in the chest cavity. That's what worried me the most. I had to give her a shot of morphine because the pain she's in, which is probably excruciating. The pneumonia and the broken ribs and general trauma to her ribcage and the head trauma was driving up all her vitals, and when I first got her in here, she had a seizure, but like I said before, there's no brain injury, no damage, and she's stable, now. She's asleep, but you can go in and see her. Tomorrow, I think we'll get some food into her; we'll have to do that, slowly, and start with clear liquids and broth. I don't think she's put anything into her body but booze for days. I'll want to keep her here for about a week. Maybe ten days. Then I think rehab would be appropriate. If I thought she could be moved without it killing her, I'd send her to the MORC1 immediately. Either that, or the three of you had better chip in for a nice tombstone. Napalm's tough, and she's taken a lot of punishment, over the years, but this is it. She's at the end of her rope."

She looked rather small, asleep there in the bed at the infirmary that Eddie and Logan and Bruce sat beside, looking down at her.

Half of her face and her head were bandaged, her ribs were bandaged, she had two splints on her fingers and she was hooked up to IV's and machines.

"And she was doing so good, too. That was almost it. Next time she pulls this shit, she's gonna die." Logan said.

Bruce Wayne didn't speak; he did not want to cry in from of Wolverine and the Comedian.

"The fuck she is, Jimmy! There ain't gonna be a next fuckin' time! I talked to Nick while Hank was workin' on her. That leg never did get better, and the kid needs to dry out, an' get her health back. As soon as she's well enough to move, she's goin' right to the MORC. S.H.I.E.L.D's got the best hospital for masks in the country. Rehab, detox, physical therapy, and nobody's ever escaped from there. Just you, and that was right after they built it, back in '54."

"You think she'll go?" Logan asked

"She'll go." The Comedian said.

"Why?" Bruce asked.

"Because I'm gonna tell her to. She listens to me."

His apprentice moved a little in her sleep, and the Comedian pulled her blankets back up over her where they had moved.

"She listened to me when I got her out from under the steps, didn't she? Shit, I guess I shoulda been lookin' after her ever since. None of this shit woulda happened." He said.

They all sat there for a few more moments, in silence and then Liv came around.

She didn't open her good eye; she just rolled around in the bed a little.

"Eddie? Eddie, where are you?"

With her good hand, she groped blindly across the blanket, looking for him.

He let her find his hand.

"I'm right here, kid. Quit squirmin, an' go back to sleep."

"Am I in trouble?"

"Trouble? You're a national hero, kid. It'll be in all the papers tomorrow. Harlequin Decimates Church of Humanity Terrorists, Saves Family From Certain Death." Eddie told her.

"You gonna make sure Nick gets that head, Eddie?"

"You can deliver it to him yourself, kid."

"But I'm dyin', aint I?"

"No."

"Because I feel like I'm dyin."

"You ain't dyin' kid. Hank says you're gonna be alright to leave here in a week, ten days, maybe, an' then you're goin to the MORC. So, do like I tell ya, go back to sleep."

"Okay, Eddie. You gonna be here, though? In case I am dyin'?"

"Yeah, kid. I'm gonna be here."

Bruce Wayne looked at his stepdaughter, and he looked at the Comedian, and he abruptly got up and went out into the hallway.

Logan followed him.

"You said it was going to happen, Logan. You were right."

"It's only natural, Bruce. It hadda happen. Look at the bright side. Liv's going to rehab, she's gonna get better. Turn her life around. Look, I've known Eddie for a long time, an', he ain't all bad. Really. He don't take his work home with him. He raised his brothers and sisters up pretty good, an' Sal forgave him an' they had Laurie, an' she still sees him, now and again, an' he's got a good side."

Bruce scowled.

"I don't care, as long as he's what's good for her. I don't care if I handed her over to the Devil in Hell, if that's what it takes to save her."

"Eddie ain't that bad."

"Neither is Liv."

When they came back in, Liv had her good eye open.

"Pop? Logan? You guys are here, too?"

"That's right, Liv. And we are not going anywhere, either." Bruce promised.

"For ten days?"

"For ten days. Alright, we'll do this in shifts. Wolverine, you take the day shift. I'll take the swing shift. Comedian, you take the night shift. And, when we're in that room with her, we don't leave. Not for any reason. Not for a second. If it's an emergency, there's a whole city full of masks who can handle it. We don't let her out of our sight. If she's in the bathroom too long, crack the door. Right?" Brice decided.

"That'll work. It's the only thing that'll work." Logan agreed.

"Better get her in a room on the top floor. With no bathroom window." Eddie added.

"Good idea." Bruce said.

"What is this, prison?" Liv asked.

"Shut your yap, kid. You're alive and we're gonna keep youse that way. Until Beast says otherwise, this is fuckin' Alcatraz." Eddie told her.

Beast had come in to check on his patient.

"You're going to watch Liv in shifts? She's not getting up any time soon." He said.

Even Liv laughed.

"That's what you think. This time tomorrow, she'll be antsy. This time the next day, she'll be walking around the room. By the third day, if nobody's watching her, she'll walk right the hell out the door, go back to New York, eat something, drink a fifth of whiskey, chew up six Excedrins, put her costume on and go right back out on the street. That's after she reports to Dr. Manhattan's lab. At nine. Sharp." Bruce told him.

Liv laughed some more.

"Tomorrow. I'll walk outa this joint under my own steam, tomorrow." She bragged

"How are you awake and coherent?" Beast asked her.

Eddie laughed, too.

"Awww, I'm fine. Hey, can I get somethin' ta eat, here? An' couldja put that TV over there on? I'm missin' _All in the Family_, and _M*A*S*H_."

Liv sat up.

"Get this shit outa my arms, huh, Hank? I can swallow pills. Gimme some of those ibuprofens. They work real good. I don't wanna look like no junkie. C'mon, gimme a break, here."

"See what I mean?" Batman asked.

"I'll take you off the IV's and you can eat tomorrow."

"Well, Okay."

***

By the time Eddie did his third night shift, the kid had insisted on moving out of the infirmary into a regular room.

One on the top floor of the mansion that had bars and wire lathe on the windows, and no window in the bathroom.

Hank relented, provided that she stay the whole seven days, ten if he insisted, report to the Infirmary at the beginning of each shift, keep taking all of her medicine, and he only let her have two drinks a day, fearing that if he stopped her cold turkey, it would either kill her, or she would kill somebody.

And stay on her crutches.

Her knee had never healed, completely, and she aggravated it, again, during her one woman assault.

They gave Eddie the night shift because Liv was a night owl, and she made the most trouble between 10 and about three.

By the seventh day, she was really raising hell.

And he was starting to regret being assigned to the night shift.

"C'mon, Eddie, lemme out."

"No."

"Then gimme a reason to stay in."

Out.

Out was the last thing she wanted.

Hell, it was the last thing he wanted.

_Cool it, Eddie. The kid's not ready for you. _

"You are some kinda piecea work, kid. You're sick. Cantcha quit thinkin' about your pussy for a coupla days?"

"Hey, Eddie, if it would leave me alone, I'd leave it alone. But the bush is burnin', yunno? I ain't had it for two whole weeks! And I ain't sick no more. All the stitches are out, all the bandages are off. You can hardly see those bruises, anymore. I'm all done with all my pills, too. I'll tell ya what I'm sick of. Sick of livin' like a nun. Good thing I got some a my books here with me. Awww, c'mon, Eddie. How about a little head? That ain't too strenuous. Nobody'll ever know. You can lock the door. Hell, I'll do you, first. C'mon. Quit actin' like a fag, willya?"

Unbelivable.

Seven days ago she was desperately clinging to life and now…

Wait a fuckin' second, Eddie.

Seven days ago she wrapped an Ace bandage around her bruised ribs, suited up and went out killed twenty grown men, twenty hardened fucking whacko religious nut job terrorists, like they were ants. Some with a chopper and some with her bare hands, and one with a machete by slicing off his head, and finished off the other ten and whoever among the first twenty that wasn't quite dead yet with a fire she walked casually out of holding the head up like a trophy and laughing, just like Crazy Jack's little girl.

That's what she did seven days ago, and being sick, almost dying, well that was a little inconvenient. Being imprisoned while she got better, that was a little more inconvenient, but she knew their hearts were in the right place and was humouring them by not escaping. Besides, it least it put her in a position where he had to be alone with her, in the dead of night, and now she was going to get some kind of screwing out of him, one way or the other, because when was the last time a guy said to a woman, hey, you, get your pussy out of my face and quit sucking my dick or I'll call the cops?

Eddie smiled, in spite of himself.

"You're a real degenerate, kid. You're supposed ta be fuckin sick. Ya can't even walk."

"Awww, my knee's been fucked for months! I fucked it up savin' your ass, didn't I? I got better! Yeah, well, you wait till I'm outa that rehab joint, Eddie. One of these days, I'm gonna give it to you whether you like it or not. I'll be in the john. In the tub. With Cap. I'm not even takin' you with me cos you gotta be such a fuckin' prick!"

"You got a fuckbook with Cap in it? Steve? You really are a piece of work, kid."

She took off her tee shirt, and her Levis, but Eddie had seen her in her shorts and undershirt before.

Although she did a hell of a lot for an undershirt strained to it's breaking point and a pair of boxers folded over a couple times, it wasn't the most exciting thing in the world.

He put the TV on.

That was when she took off the undershirt.

Hellloooo, titties.

"What the fuck are you doin'?" Eddie sputtered.

Can't stop looking at those tits.

Kid's got some nice tits, they look even better in person.

"I'm takin' off my clothes! Whaddya want me to do, take a bath with my underwear on?"

"Cantcha do that in the bathroom?"

"Why? You're always tellin' me how nobody can tell I ain't a man!"

She took off her shorts and threw them at him, hitting him right in the face.

Eddie threw them on the ground.

"Why dontcha take a real good fuckin' look, then maybe you'll remember." She told him.

Eddie took a good fuckin' look.

And he was going to remember.

She wasn't too tall, but she had some big, beautiful tits, and an ass like a woman, and there were no scars on her tits, or on her big, strong, round, creamy white thighs.

She was a real redhead, too.

"I wish you could see the look on your face, Eddie. I'll be thinkin' about it, pretty soon, now."

Liv grabbed one of her books, rolled it up, and limped towards the bathroom.

He could hear the water running.

For a minute, Eddie just sat there in the chair.

Then, he grinned.

Fuck this.

She was his girl, wasn't she?

Just don't fuck her, that's all.

He put the TV up as loud as it would go, and kicked the bathroom door in.

He could have just opened it, but where's the fun in that?

_(Author's Note: Uh-oh. Looks like Eddie's had all he can stands, and he can't stands no more. Remember, Eddie, she's not locked up in that room with you, you're locked up in that room with her. Is this a happy ending? Or, with these two, is it just the first battle in a long war? Better tune into the next chapter, "Thin Line Between Love and Hate" to find out.)_

1 Masked Operative Rehabilitation Complex. Run by S.H.I.E.L.D, located in California, near the Mexican border.


	4. Thin Line Between Love and Hate

**Chapter 4: Thin Line Between Love and Hate**

**New York City, Nite Owl's Brownstone, 1971**

**I: Dan**

Dan was used to his partner just being in his apartment, unannounced and uninvited, and always in costume, so he wasn't too alarmed to see him, even though it was one of their nights off.

One of his nights off.

Rorschach didn't take nights off.

"So, I was just out with Hollis. I'm gonna make some macaroni and cheese. You want some?"

Dan already had the table set for himself and his tenant, Joe Mac, so he set out an extra place for Rorschach.

He wasn't sure who appointed him den mother, but having his meals with Joe and, often, Rorschach was better than eating alone, and it wasn't like he didn't have the money.

"Yes, please, Daniel."

"We were talking about the Church of Humanity operation. Me and Hollis. Neither of us is sure if we should praise Liv as a hero, or start walking on the other side of the street from her."

"That scum! They deserved the death Harlequin gave them. The same death they give innocent people."

"I knew you'd say that. But you weren't there. Well, I wasn't there either. But, Jesus, Rorschach, she came out of there with a man's head in her hand."

"Not just a man. One of S.H.I.E.L.D's Most Wanted. And I was there. Observing. I would have assisted, but I wasn't needed. Harlequin's a good mask. Does good work. At great personal risk. Time to return the favour."

Dan was standing in front of the stove, stirring the Velveeta, one eye on the boiling water.

"How?"

"S.H.I.E.L.D agents came, tonight. When you were out. Tomorrow, we're to take Harlequin to the MORC in the Owl Ship."

"So she is going to rehab. That's good. I hate to say this, but Blake's been a good influence on her."

"Cut from the same cloth. Water's boiling over, Daniel."

"Shit!"

Dan turned down the stove, and put the elbow macaroni in the boiling water.

"I should get married. I'm a rotten cook. When are we supposed to be at the X-Mansion?"

"Nine. Sharp."

"Well, we'll leave early. Liv's up all night. We'll visit with her in the infirmary, for awahile."

"Negative. Harlequin's being held under 24 hour guard in one of the X-Mansion's secure rooms. No one but the guards go in, or out."

"Guards? What guards?"

"Wolverine, Comedian, and her stepfather, Batman. They work in shifts. Wolverine during the day, Batman on the swing shift, Comedian on the graveyard shift. Risk of escape is high, Daniel. Harlequin doesn't understand she needs to get well. Go to rehab. What she understands is that no one is out there, doing her job. We should."

"But who's her contact? I know it's not Joe. He looks out for her, but he doesn't have the…underworld connections."

"Bear. I know him. You don't have to."

Dan was about to say that what she did was crazy, but if she could do it for five years, on foot, and in a regular car, in a boiler suit with a few guns and a machete, he and Rorschach could do it for a few weeks with the Owl Ship, and all of his gizmos.

"That's a good idea. It would ease her mind, while she's at rehab."

Dan transferred the food over to the table.

He went over to the phone and called up his tenant, Hollis Mason's assistant mechanic at the garage, and Liv's childhood friend, "Joe Mac" McClatchey.

"Joe? Dinner's ready."

He sat a Coke in front of his partner, got himself a beer, and sat down.

Rorschach picked up his fork, lifted up the bottom of his mask, and started eating.

"Is it any good? Too much oregano?" Dan asked.

"Good." Rorschach said.

"24 hour guard, huh? I understand she wants out, but do we have to treat her like a prisoner? Why do they want us, anyway? Do they think if they get a couple of guys from S.H.I.E.L.D that she doesn't know from Adam, she'll just hijack the jet, and make them take her back to New York?"

"Exactly."

"She wouldn't do that."

"No. She'd make them bail out. Harlequin knows how to fly. The Bat taught her."

"But why would she do it?"

"Because she doesn't like anyone telling her what to do. Treating her like a prisoner."

"You're probably right. Wow, you must have been hungry. You want some more? I made some chicken last night, let me warm it up for you."

"Thank you, Daniel. It has been awhile since I've eaten."

"Whatever your day job is, you need to get a new one."

"My job is satisfactory. I can't cook."

"Look, you can always come and eat here, okay? Where else do you eat?"

"With Harlequin. She cooks."

Dan just looked at his partner for a moment.

"Okay, I know I'm out of line on this one, but, any other female mask we work with, you tolerate it, but it drives you crazy. Hell, if we have a woman in the ship and she sits next to you, it drives you crazy. But, you shadow Liv, you stand up for her at meetings when Adrian gets on her case, and now you're telling me you eat at her house on a regular basis? What's the difference?"

"Harlequin's not a woman mask. She's a mask." Rorschach said.

Dan sort of knew exactly what he meant.

"Is she a good cook?"

"Very. Becoming in a woman. Makes up for some of the rest."

Dan laughed.

Joe came in, and sat down at the table.

There was grease under his fingernails, but his hands were fairly clean.

"Who's a good cook?"

"Liv." Dan answered.

"Napalm? Oh yeah, she's a great cook. Between my Ma, and Alfred, teachin' her? She's a lot better than you are, Dan. Too much oregano."

"Shut up and eat, Joe, or I'll raise your rent."

"It's OK, I like oregano. Word is you guys are gonna be takin' Liv out to Superhero Jail. That changed the odds. Nobody's takin' bets on her not gettin' out to the West Coast, but it's five to one, double or nothing, right now, on her bustin' out."

"Nobody breaks out of the MORC. The last person to do it was Wolverine. And that was in 1954."

Rorschach stopped eating and took a five dollar bill out of his pocket.

"Put this on Harlequin." He told Joe Mac.

"Rorschach! You don't gamble!" Dan exclaimed.

"Not gambling. Solidarity."

"Hey, Dan, I don't gamble, either, but I got a week's pay on Liv. Like he said, solidarity. And a big payoff at the end won't hurt."

"Well, I hope she behaves herself with us. And if they have her in leg irons, or chains, I'm taking them off. Agreed?"

"Of course." Rorschach replied.

**Westchester, New York. Security Room, X-Mansion**

**II: Eddie**

The kid was in the tub, and the tub was full of bubbles, and if the kid hadn't been just this side of dead a week before, Eddie's clothes would have been on the floor, and so would a lot of the bubbles, because he would have been in the tub and in her.

He took off his shirt and his undershirt, in one fail swoop, and started unbuckling his belt.

Then, he took off his pants.

She was looking at him like he was made out of ice cream.

"I wish you could see the look on your face. OK, kid, get outa that tub. I can't breathe underwater."

"Wait. It's gonna take me awahile. Fuckin' leg! Shit!"

Eddie picked Liv up out of the tub.

He dried her off a little and carried her back into the bedroom, and laid her down on the bed.

"Take your hair down, baby." He asked her.

She was trembling all over even before he kissed her, all he had to do was get on the bed.

Kissed her lips and her neck and her ears, finally got his hands on those big, beautiful tits, sucking and licking her little pink nipples.

"Oooo…oooo…Eddie…"

Soon she was pushing his head down, with her hard little hands.

"Don't push, doll. I know where your burning bush is."

Eddie slipped his hand between her round, strong, creamy white thighs, and found her swollen little button with his fingers while he was still working on her tits.

She moaned, low and deep, and one of her hard little hands darted across his chest and down, groping for his cock, which she grasped with her sure, tattooed fist.

He slipped two of his fingers into her, and he was surprised she came so fast, moaning and squealing, fucking his hand, hard.

She was still trying to catch her breath, when, with a low chuckle, Eddie lay down between her legs and without moving his hand away, he got his tongue into her sweet, hot little pussy, pushing another finger unto her and licking her hot, swollen clit.

She still tasted like a teenager,

Like sweet, teenage pussy and he couldn't get enough of it.

Long slow licks, and fast, hard ones, stopping to breathe his hot breath on her and revel in her moans and her cries and the way she started grinding against him, thrusting her hot pussy against his hungry mouth.

Sucking on her hot little button, fucking her hard with one hand and playing with her tits with the other while she came like a freight train, moaning his name, clutching at the sheets, undulating beneath him.

Moaning his name, Eddie, Eddie, Eddie.

He got up off her and looked down at her, sweaty and naked with her arms and legs all asprawl and her hair all over everything, looking at him like he had ten heads.

Now she looks like a woman.

He wiped off his face with a corner of the bedsheet, and the look on her face was so damn funny, he had to laugh, even if she might just punch him in the nose for it.

"Ya look surprised, kid. What? You think because I'm a mean, murdering, brutal motherfucker I'd be a lousy lay? Kid, I've had ten times as many women as you've had men, I know what I'm doing. A woman lies down with me, every time she lies down with some other asshole, it's me she's thinking about. I make sure of that."

"Who, me? Shit, Eddie, I never thought you'd be a lousy lay. I could tell from lookin' at ya, that you'd be some kinda man. I've had my hand down my pants since I was 13 years old, thinkin' about just how good you would be."

That made him laugh even harder.

She pushed him over onto his back, and he was still laughing, put his arms around her when she rolled over on top of him.

"What's so fuckin' funny?"

"The look on your face, Liv. You got tears comin' outa your eyes."

"Yeah, well, you're next!'

Wanted to kiss her again, so he did it.

Then she was all over him, like an army of Livs, nipping his earlobes and rubbing his chest, nuzzling and kissing his chest, snuffling around in the hair on his chest, and licking him, rubbing her tits all over him.

She had her hand on his cock, again, and let out a pouty little moan, now with her busy mouth on his thighs.

Stroking his cock, and, oh shit, licking his balls.

Licking them.

And jacking him off.

Moaning in her throat with shameless hot lust.

You know what you usually have to do to convince a broad to lick your balls?

Now Eddie was moaning, deep in his chest, low, rumbling moans.

She circled the head of his cock with her tongue, and then he felt her warm, wet mouth close around it, slowly, her mouth taking over for her hand, bending over him, and he moved her hair so he could look at her and see the rapt expression of misty-eyed pleasure on her face while she sucked him off, ravenously, swallowing his cock down until he could feel his balls banging against her chin.

"Oh fuck! Baby, like that…don't you fucking stop…"

He reached down and smacked her on the ass, thrust his hand between her legs, and that burning bush of hers was on fire again.

She stopped, and he popped out of her mouth with a sound like a cork leaving a bottle as she gasped, in surprise, and pleasure.

"Turn around, baby. Daddy wants some pussy while you suck his cock." He growled.

Yeah, that got her going, she was a real dirty little girl.

Dirty and hot and sweet, licking her pussy, again while he thrust hard into her mouth and she sucked him, harder.

This time, he came before she did, twice, one after the other, but he finished her off and she didn't spit and before she rolled off him, she licked the last drop of jizz from the end of his cock before flopping over onto her back.

"Jesus, Eddie, that was better than the last ten fucks I had." She breathed.

"Kid, you oughta hang up your mask and go into the porno business. I've had broads that suck cock for a living, and you just put them all to shame."

"Well, I like what I like, yunno? Fucking's my hobby."

She sat up.

"You think that bathwater is still warm? Because I need a bath, now."

She went to get up, and her bad leg went wobbly, so Eddie picked her up, again, and carried her into the bathroom.

She put in a little more hot water, and he wasn't crazy about the bubbles, but he kind of needed a bath, too.

She kept telling him she could limp, fine, but he carried her back to the bed, and got in it with her.

No point in sleeping on the goddamn couch, now, was there?

Wait.

The kid had a think about sleeping with men.

He was about to say something to her when she hesitantly moved over toward him, in a way that could have been accidental, but wasn't.

Which makes me only the second guy she's ever trusted enough to lie down and sleep beside, and Jimmy had to practically hold her down on the bed.

And she just came right over to good old Eddie.

He put his arm around her.

Yeah, she's my girl, alright.

***

The next thing Eddie knew, somebody was coming in the door.

Jimmy.

Must be time for the morning shift.

The kid didn't wake up, but Eddie sat up on one elbow.

"Woops! Sorry about that, Eddie. I'll come back on Wednesday." He joked.

"Hey, you was here first, Jimmy. But, I see you any other day, I'll tear those claws right outa your mitts." Eddie joked, in reply.

"I believe you would. Better get her awake. Her ride's here."

"What ride?"

"Her escort to the MORC."

"Shit!"

"She's comin' back, Eddie."

"Yeah. I know."

Wolverine closed the door, and Eddie set about the task of getting the kid out of bed, dressed, packed and ready to go.

At the Infirmary, Beast pronounced Liv well enough to travel, and, with her on her crutches and Eddie carrying her knapsack, they went outside.

"You, Boy Scout? You and Inkblot?"

"I guess Mr. Fury thinks she might hijack strangers."

Eddie was about to say that even the kid wouldn't do something that crazy, but he saw the look of disappointment on her face.

"Hey, kid, you listen ta me. You go to the MORC, an' complete the program, and none of your bullshit. I'll seeya in five weeks, and after that, you better be sober and flyin' right." He told her.

"Who, me? I'll be out in four. I'll leave when I'm damn good and ready."

What Eddie didn't realise at the time, was that she meant it.

**On the Owl Ship, En-Route to California**

**I: Dan**

Dan couldn't help but notice that Liv was awfully cheery for a degenerate alcoholic who hated authority that was on her way to five weeks in lockdown at a place that some masks jokingly referred to as Superhero General, or even Superhero Prison.

She popped a Chuck Berry cassette out of her knapsack and stuck it in the tape deck of the onboard studio, and was swivelling around in her seat, humming as she ate donuts and drank coffee.

"Okay, Liv, I give up. Why the hell are you so happy?" Dan asked.

"Rorschach, me and Dan, we're gonna talk about dirty stuff, now, an' I know ya ain't into that, so, maybe you wanna go take a piss, or somethin'." Liv said.

"Weapons inventory." He said, and, glad that Liv had warned him, took his leave.

"Hey, Dan, you remember the best head you ever got? In your life?"

Dan's face reddened, and he took a sip of his coffee.

"C'mon, answer me. I ain't tryin' to make a pass at ya. And ya get to talk about dirty stuff to a girl. Right? I mean, who can ya tell this stuff to? Not Rorschach. A mask's gotta have somebody in the game ta brag about his conquests to."

"Twilight Lady. April 15th, 1968. It took a week for my eyes to uncross."

"Yeah, I heard about you guys. You an' a nympho vice queen supervillainess, you dog, you."

Dan blushed.

"Those were the days." He said, sipping his coffee.

"Well, ya remember, at the time, lyin' on your back, and thinking, shit, this is the best head I've ever had? Man, I could lie here till I'm old and grey. Now, take that, and make it a 69."

"That's kinda what happened. Yunno, eventually."

"You remember how you felt the next morning?"

"Bulletproof."

"Exactly, man! I feel like I could fly to San Diego all on my own. Jump mountains. Shit, I kinda wish I could get into a fight. I feel like I could tear somebody's head right the fuck off. Every cell in my body is singin' "All Things Bright and Beautiful" like about a million churchgoers on the Sunday before the Rapture. As for rehab, at least they ain't makin' me quit drinkin, altogether. An' as for it bein' impregnable, shit, they'd have to have the Gods of Asgard harness an army of Frost Giants ta make mortar from the blood of dragons and bricks from the hairs of Odin's beard for me not to be able to bust out. When I feel like I'm done, I'm done, and I'll bust outa that joint like the walls was made of wet toilet paper." Liv boasted.

"Who was he?"

"Huh?"

"The man in question."

"Just like ol' Chuck's been singin' about. It was a brown-eyed handsome man."

"Oh my God! You got down with the Comedian?"

She laughed in a way that made Dan nervous.

Very nervous.

And he was already embarrassed at his choice of euphemisms, considering the act that Liv had described to him.

I wouldn't mind getting down with, or, for that matter, going down on her.

Some guys have all the luck.

"Damn straight! Man, I got all the way down with him!"

"Are you sure that was a good idea?"

"Dan, ya know I don't worry about shit like that. Good idea, bad idea. Who gives a fuck? So, are the guns all loaded, Rorschach?"

"Affirmative."

"Good. I been drinkin' too much coffee. See? I'm on my way. All reformed drunks drink too much coffee. I gotta go take a piss."

Dan waited until after she left.

"That dirty old bastard!"

"Who?"

"Who else? The Comedian! They, well, they did some…things. Can you believe that?"

"Yes."

"Yes? What do you mean, yes?"

"You know more about it than I do, Daniel."

"I guess you're right. These things happen."

"Certainly."

"Go make sure she's not bailing out."

"But Daniel!"

"Oh, right. She's a mask, not a woman mask, and you don't want to see otherwise, I'll go." Dan said, and put on the autopilot.

"Hey! No fair peeking! I'm tryna piss, ya kinky bastard!"

Dan hurried back to the controls, red-faced amid Liv's laughter.

"I didn't look. Only to see if I could see her shoes. I did not look." Dan told his partner.

"Hurm." Rorschach said.

**Outside San Diego, California, S.H.I.E.L.D Masked Operative Rehabilitation Center (MORC) **

**I: Nick**

"I'm surprised to see you on your feet, Agent Napier."

"I wasn't about to come in here in a fucking wheelchair, Mr. Director. Crutches are good enough."

"We'll see what your doctors have to say. Let me take that off your hands."

Nick Fury put the black draped tank on his desk, and took off the drape.

"Looks just like his picture, huh? Same stupid haircut, and all." Liv chuckled.

"Now that's what I call a confirmed kill, Dugan." He said to his second-in-command.

"That's him, alright. John Stryker. Good work, Agent Napier." Dum Dum agreed.

"Thank you, sir."

"Don't thank us yet, Harlequin. You're young, and you're full of piss, wind and excitement, and I've tolerated your wild ways so far, but your boss, Mr. Director Blake and I have both agreed, the buck stops here. You're here to get better, and dry out, and when you get back to New York, you clean up your act. Now, everybody gets in a bar fight or a fender-bender, now and then, and I've nothing to say about your personal life, but I want this Skid Row rummy bullshit and these Troubles stopped. Or you're out, and I'll see to it you don't work as a mask, again, either. Is that clear, soldier?"

"Like a fuckin' chandelier, Mr. Director, sir."

"Nice to see you haven't lost your spirit, Napalm. I hope your recover goes smoothly, and I'll be keeping an eye on you. Dismissed."

"Thank you, sir."

Liv left his office, and Director Fury got ready to go, as well.

"Now I'm telling you, Dugan, that's what I call a soldier! After we get this drinking problem cleared up and Eddie gets that kid on the path, we're going to see a damn fine agent and a damn good mask."

"How is he going to keep that girl on the path? If I didn't know better, I'd say she was an oversized pixie."

"Oh, I'm sure if any man has the tools for that job, it's Eddie Blake." Nick Fury joked.

"My hat's off to him. I hope he eats his Wheaties." Dum Dum replied.

**San Ysidro California, Eight Weeks Later **

(This takes place after the events described in "Blue Light Special" under Comics-Ironman. You don't have to read it, but if you do, or if you have, you'll see what's made Eddie so goddamn mad.)

**I: Eddie**

The glamorous life of a superhero.

Fortunately for Eddie, he didn't put a mask on for that.

He did it because he needed money to raise his brothers and sisters, he hated fucking piece of shit criminal scum like his old man, and because he knew he had to do something good with his bad temper before he killed an innocent person and ended up in jail.

But, people thought it was glamorous.

Like Hollywood.

Like the way that drunken prick Shellhead made it look.

Drunken prick.

Movin' in on his girl, gettin' her boozed up when she had just escaped from rehab, shacking up with her in his hotel in San Diego, trying to give the kid the old razzle-dazzle.

Glamorous.

No sitting around in a rundown cabin in a cheap roadside motel on a Friday night, waiting to pick up your partner from rehab the next morning.

The kid had stayed in for the three weeks Nick wanted her to and completed the whole program.

But.

But Nick had the feeling she was going to run again in her last week, her punitive week for running before and tearing up TJ and San Diego with Shellhead, saving his life in the process.

So he put her on the violent floor, in the basement, in a padded cell, with not so much as a pair of boxer shorts.

That was why Eddie had gone out and got something for her to eat, and was sitting there at half-past midnight, dresses, looking at the door.

He knew his apprentice.

She would consider that a challenge, breaking out on her last night, just to show that she could.

So, he wasn't surprised when the furtive knock came at the door.

"Eddie, Eddie! It's me, Eddie, lemme in! I went over the wall, again!"

He opened the door and the kid slipped in and closed it.

She looked like one of those pictures of somebody who's raised by wolves.

She was breathing hard, from the effort of her escape. Her hair was loose and fell over her whole body, all wild and tangled with bits of leaves in it, and she had mud and grass stains and bits of leaves all over her.

And this wild look on her face, like it was the most fun she'd had in years.

She was naked, and sure, her hair covered her up pretty good, but she was still naked and you could see everything, from her red bush to one plump, pink nipple peeking out of the veil of her hair, taut from excitement.

Well, Eddie didn't care about the leaves, or the mud, or the grass stains, because she was all better now, just fine, fine and hot and ready.

Ready for him to make her his girl.

Then, he thought about her shacking up with Shellhead, thought about how the whole time she was at that MORC, the whole three weeks, she was probably fucking Stark stupid.

Rage boiled in his blood.

"Am I safe?" she asked

"No. Nick's comin' to get you. Sure you're safe. It's not like breakin' jail, kid. You're safe. Hit the showers."

"Can I borrow a shirt, or somethin', Eddie? I got no clothes."

"I can see that. Take the t-shirt on the bed. I only wore it once."

The kid took the shirt, she took a shower, and she came back.

"What's in the bag?"

"Burger an' fries. I figured you'd be hungry after your Great Escape."

"You knew I was gonna do it?"

"Sure I did. You take the small bed. I'm turnin' in."

She ate her food and shut out the lights, and eventually the TV, and Eddie could hear her fall asleep, but he stayed wide awake.

He couldn't sleep.

How could she do it to him?

Skip the MORC, and shack up with Stark?

This wasn't like her seeing Jimmy once a week, and that Joe Mac kid, and her little groupies, that prick Tony Stark was trying to steal his girl out from under him.

And did the kid care?

Hell, no.

She looked at Stark, and said, well here's a good lookin' guy, and he's a mask, and I hear he's good for it, what the hell?

That was just how she was, she didn't give a damn who was fucking her as long as he was up to her standards and she was getting fucked.

Yeah, well, Edward Morgan Blake doesn't play second fiddle to anybody, sweetheart.

She started rolling around in her sleep, no, thrashing around in her sleep.

Breathing heavy.

Even in her fucking dreams.

She's probably dreaming about him, the fucking silver spoon motherfucker.

I'd like to kill them both.

No, just him.

I want her.

Bad.

Now she was starting to sound upset.

Maybe somewhere in her mind, she felt guilty.

"Eddie…Eddie, please, I need you…don't tease me…Eddie…Eddie."

The Comedian was out of the chair, and his clothes, in seconds, flat.

**II: Liv**

I was really tired after breakin out, and runnin' all that way to the motel, so I fell into this deep sleep.

And while I was asleep, I had this dream.

It was the greatest fucking dream I ever had in my life.

It started out pretty lousy, with me feeling all lonely and horny and sad and shit like that but then I dreamt that Eddie got in the little bed with me.

He woke me up tugging on the hem of the tee shirt he lent me.

"Huh? What's goin on?" I asked.

"Hey, kid, you're my girl, and I wouldn't be any kind of a man if I let my girl lie there and beg me for it, would I?"

Oh, man!

First of all, that one night, during the week when Hank was unreasonably holding me prisoner at the X-Mansion, Eddie just laid me out on the bed and gave me the goddamn best head I ever had in my life.

Holy shit, by the time he got done with me, I had tears comin' outa my eyes.

He was so goddamn good, I was just about in love with the son of a bitch by the time he got done with me, and I never, ever in my fucking life even thought of any shit like that about a man.

We did the old 69, and shit, was that hot.

Hotter than hell.

The Devil made that man in the deepest fucking pits of hell, he really did.

I got more outa that with Eddie than I did out of the last ten fucks I had with some mask groupie.

And, in case you were wondering, that great big codpiece he wears ain't just for show.

But that was it.

Just when my imprisonment was starting to look like a hot good time, as I was figuring on getting Logan to come across on the day shift, then sleeping on the swing shift when Pop was around, and then getting it on with Eddie during the graveyard shift, Beast fucks up my scheme by pronouncing me well.

Next day I was at the MORC.

Not only did they take my booze away, they got cameras in your rooms, if you're in rehab.

Even in your bathroom.

And you can go mad lookin' for 'em. If you find one and dismantle it, they'll just put another one in while you're seein' your doctors.

So, even if I got desperate enough to just pick a mask, any mask, and go, I'd be that night's free show.

And one thing I've never done, is sleep around with every mask in town. I mean, that would really be bad for my fucking reputation. Who's gonna take me seriously as a comrade if I'm hanging around like some little mask groupie, waiting for anything in a cape to yank down his tights?

Forget the orderlies, too.

Strictly from hunger.

I would have had to be drunk, dead drunk, five days on a bender blackout drunk to fuck any of them.

It wasn't the best four weeks of my life, and the first two were Hell on Earth.

Withdrawal from booze kills people, yunno. You got your DT's, and your seizures, and all that shit. It's pretty bad. For about a week, all you do is lie around in your underwear, sweating it out and praying to die.

Then, as soon as you feel a little better, at least, as soon as I felt a little better, you get this case of the hangover hots, times about a million.

In the third week, they start letting you have your three to five drinks a day, but, all the while, I was doin' all that gym class shit for my leg, all day long.

Nights hiding under the covers with the lights out, takin' care of business, wishin' I could have a drink, thinkin' about Eddie's big, long, thick monster of a cock.

Well, when I was to where I had it down, I was having my three to five drinks a day, and all I asked was for a weekend pass to go to TJ for Cinco de Mayo.

I mean, the program lets you have one special occasion every four months where you can booze it up a little, and that's all I wanted.

Actually, more than the booze, I wanted to go get some action. I mean, we're talking two weeks with no booze, and four weeks with no cock, and by that time, I was so goddamn horny, I wouldn't have cared about my reputation, I would have fucked anything with a dick in a mask and tights, just to get my nut.

But they had me in fucking lockdown, in my room, because I was a little testy, and I beat the fuck out of one of their beast man orderlies because he came in and took my tray from my room before I was done with my lunch.

Yeah, the big dumb prick didn't deserve it, but you take drinking and screwing from me, and lock me up like a piece of shit criminal, I get mad.

First they said no to me getting a weekend pass, and then they put me in lockdown for a week and a half, because I blacked some guy's eye and bloodied his nose?

It was like it was prison.

Well, if it was prison, then I decided I was going over the wall.

It wasn't hard at all.

Well, when I got to TJ, I was pissed off, and horny as a Viking's helmet, so I was really loaded for bear. I boozed it up a little too much in TJ, and ended up in the drunk tank, with Tony Stark and his chest plate on the fritz.

Lucky for him I turned up.

I fixed it for him, and we broke out, and guess what he wanted to do as soon as he was feeling like himself again?

And I'm talking about the Tony Stark, here. A little Mick mutt like me doesn't usually get a shot at some high class stuff like Tony. And me and Tony, we got on like a house afire, probably because we're both crazy mad scientists who like drinking and screwing, and a little witty repartee.

I mean, he wants to shack up in a luxury suite in the hotel he owns, and it's hundred year old Scotch and Turkish cigarettes and free room service, and he tells me he's the God of Fuck, and he wants to have a contest to see which one of us is the dirtier son of a bitch?

What, I'm supposed to say no?

I don't know what the fuck Eddie's problem was.

I mean, me and Tony, all we did was do a little drinkin' and some screwin' in a hotel suite for a coupla days.

I was gonna go back to the MORC at the end of the weekend, even if Eddie didn't come and get me, and it wasn't like I forgot about him, I mean, no flies on Tony, but he ain't Eddie, yunno?

Still, I mean, I needed some action, and I ended up making a friend, and Eddie was on the other side of the country, what the fuck was I supposed to do?

But Eddie got so fuckin' mad at me, because of me havin' a little fun with Tony Stark, you woulda thought he was my old man and I was his old lady.

So, you can imagine I wasn't gettin' anything outa him.

Except this dream.

Man, it was some kind of dream, that kind of dream that seems like it's longer than it is, because you don't have the same dream all night, and in my sweet, sweet dream, goddamn if Eddie didn't get hot enough to fuck me two or three times, he had me up all night long.

I never had it like that, let me tell you.

What a man, what a fuckin' man!

And in my dream I fell back to sleep, feelin' as happy and satisfied as I ever had felt in my life, with Eddie in that little bed, lying there all curled up against him, real nice.

Of course when I woke up in the morning I still had the tee shirt on and Eddie was asleep in the other bed, so I just rolled over a few times until he woke me up to tell me he was going to the MORC to get my stuff, and I just rolled over again and slept some more until he came back.

I don't know why I was so tired, I slept all night long.

Eddie, he must have been up all night, he drank about six cups of coffee and he still let me take the first shift driving back to New York, and he slept like a dead man.

He slept through me stopping to piss twice, and eat once, and he was still asleep about eight hours later, when I pulled the Wildcat over.

I had a hard time waking him up for his shift, and I kept an eye on him, driving, for about an hour until I got in the back and got in my sleeping bag to go to sleep.

"Hey, Eddie? Guess what I dreamed about, last night, in the motel?"

"I don't hafta, kid. You talk in your sleep."

"Man, that was some kinda dream! You're really some kinda man, Eddie! I've had the rest, now I know who's the best. At least you were in my dream. We were really goin' at it. It was just fuckin', an' suckin, an' wankin', an' spankin', all night long. Yunno, that was such a good dream, I woke up in the morning, tired?"

"Uh-huh."

"Accourse, I wasn't the only one havin' a good time in my dream. I think I gave you a run for your money, too."

"Sounds great, kid. I wish I coulda been there."

I let a couple minutes go by.

"You were pretty goddamn sleepy today, Eddie."

"So? So I was sleepy? Ya wanna make a fuckin' federal case out of it?"

"No. It's just that, how the fuck did _you_ get so tired out by _my_ dream?"

I had him there, and he knew it.

"Go ta sleep, kid."

Dream, my rosy red Irish ass!

**New York City, Summer 1971**

**II: Eddie**

Once the kid got back from her second stint at the MORC, it was clear she really was going to try and clean up her act.

She stuck to the regimen of four drinks a day, and the amount of bar fights and crazy shit she got into dropped right off; she was really making an effort to pull her socks up and prove to the mask world she wasn't just a shanty Irish drunk.

Things should have been running smoothly between them, but they weren't.

Eddie knew he was being a real rotten son of a bitch to Liv, and she probably couldn't figure out why, and he wasn't about to tell her if she couldn't figure it out.

It was a damn good thing for Tony Stark that Nick Fury had pretty much ordered the Comedian not to hurt him, because the idea of another mask crowing in his henhouse made him want to kill.

As for Liv, every time Eddie looked at the kid he was of two minds about her.

On one hand, he wanted to hit her, hit her hard, hard as he could, and keep hitting her, and he didn't give a shit if she would hit him back, break his nose, bust up his face, break his fucking neck.

The only thing he wanted to do more than beat her black and blue and bloody, even if he ended up the same way, was to fuck her again. He'd look at her and think about that night at the X-Mansion, about how pretty, and how hot, and how horny she was, and it would feel like he had a tree growing out of his crotch.

He had just started thinking of her like she was his woman, and what did she do?

She got in with Shellhead.

It wasn't even that was what she wanted, that goddamn drunken cripple, it was just that he was fucking there.

Shellhead, him, some groupie, Jimmy, the Mex bartender, a guy in a bar on 42nd street with a Flying Leathernecks tattoo, whoever the fuck, she didn't care, that was all.

It was all the same to her who she fucked as long as he had a stiff cock, and Eddie would be God-damned if he was just going to be another notch on her belt.

The whole goddamn time she was at the MORC, she was fucking that prick Tony Stark six ways from Sunday and the idea, the very goddamn idea of it filled the Comedian with rage.

It was always just right on the tip of his tongue, to scream at her about what the fuck was she doing, shacking up with that sunnuvabitch snivelling rat-bastard silver spoon motherfucker Tony Stark, and didn't she have any respect for him at all?

She'd smile at him and say, "What business of it is yours, old man?"

Then he'd hit her, hit her as hard as she could, and she'd hit him back, and that would be it. Meanwhile, the kid was chafing under the whip; she didn't want to blow the apprenticeship and she had respect for him, but not so much that if he kept pushing her she wasn't going to do something.

He'd scream at her over nothing, berate her all the way back to Long Island in his car over something insignificant and she'd curse him and snarl and give him murderous looks.

Things were getting ugly, but there wasn't much Eddie could do about that. He wasn't about to let her know how she got to him, and the looks she was giving him, he wasn't sure if rehab had made him safe, after all.

Logan didn't have to worry if the kid snapped and shot him in the face or stabbed him through the heart of gave him a nice new smile under the one he already had; that shit wouldn't faze him.

Eddie was made of strong stuff, but not that strong, and the last thing he wanted was for him and the kid to get into some kind of death match.

The whole situation really pissed him off.

He wasn't used to worrying about whether or not somebody was going to kill him, let alone somebody he was supposed to be showing the ropes to, and a broad, to boot.

Now the Comedian was never sure if he could trust the kid enough to bring her in on any of his government shit, and he had discovered she didn't have a specific area of the city where she's done her rounds, so he just took her down to his old haunts on the waterfront.

That shit was pretty rough, but the kid could take it.

She was an odd fish, the kid.

It wasn't like he'd never been around a broad who was a mask. Sal was, and their kid was, and it wasn't as if either Sally Jupiter or her kid were cream puffs who were better off in underwear ads than out on the street.

Neither of them had what the kid did, though. She was tough like a man was tough, like fuckin' Superman was tough. You could beat her, shoot her, stab her, it only made her mad. You could put a bullet in the kid and break her fuckin' jaw and she's still put her bare fist right through your belly and rip your guts out.

Literally.

Eddie kept thinking about her jumping out of the Owlship and fucking scalping the first Top Knot she could grab. The motherfucker was twice her size, she punched him in the stomach and when he bent over she produced a wicked-looking Buck knife and scalped him. That was what she did on the job.

For fun, she drove her souped-up muscle car, drunk, at insanely high speeds, and got into bar fights with assholes who were dumb enough to fuck with her.

No doubt about it, the kid was wild, violent, and when everybody threw their hands up in the air and shoved her at the biggest son-of-a-bitch they could think of, out of control.

Sure, he had her behaving a little better and she was on the right track, but she was like a mad dog on a big chain that he was holding her back with and beating her up with at the same time.

All you gotta do with an animal like that is let the chain slip for a minute and it rips out your fucking throat.

Not that he was any better, lately.

That mood that he hadn't been in, since he was about twenty-five?

The one where you're horny, horny like a junkyard dog under a blue moon, but at the same time, you're pissed off and full of rage, so you know that if you can't get your rocks off, you'll just go out and kill somebody with your bare hands, so you can get to sleep at night without beating your head against the wall until your brains squirt out of your ears?

Now he was in it, all the time, every day.

And so was the kid.

The Comedian tossed the butt of his cigar onto the pavement and stamped it out.

He went into Trivelino Mac's, had a drink, and then went upstairs to the kid's room.

The door wasn't locked, so he opened it, and the way it opened, you could see into the can, which made him close the door, again.

"Come on…hurry up…I gotta go to work…let's go, chief."

"Uhhhh…uhhh…EEEERK!...oh wow…"

"Yeah, yeah, Romeo. Zip it up an' take it with you."

"Can I…"

"No. Always nice meetin' a fan. Seeya."

The long-haired kid who came out of the room almost shit directly into his pants when he saw Eddie.

"Oh shit, look man, I, uh, um…"

"Keep walkin', Romeo."

Eddie crashed through the door to find the kid sitting on her bed, zipping up her costume.

"Hiya, Eddie. Well, that coulda been a lot better, but a fuck's a fuck, yunno?"

The Comedian felt his hands balling into fists.

"Get your ass in that can an' take a fuckin' shower! I ain't walkin' around with you all fuckin' night, smellin' like reefer, Doritos, an' patchouli oil!" he barked, grabbing her by the collar of her costume and shoving her towards the bathroom.

"Okay, okay, Eddie. Don't get sore. Jesus."

The Comedian sat down on the bed, put his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands.

He hadn't felt like this since he was a teenager, that crazy feeling of being horny and pissed off at the same time, equally ready to fuck as to kill.

What he wanted to do was take off his costume, kick the bathroom door in, tear the shower curtain down, throw the kid over his shoulder, toss her on the bed and show her a fuck wasn't just a fuck; he knew he could scratch that itch of hers like no man ever did before, like no man ever would again.

And it wasn't like she'd stop him.

She'd wrap her legs around him right up tight, and open up her sweet little pussy for him, and go ooo ooo ooo, and Eddie, Eddie, Eddie.

Goddamn her.

Goddamn it, they gave her to him, she was his girl.

His.

Why couldn't she act like it?

He didn't care if she fucked other guys, as long as he knew he was the one, he was first, he was her man.

Yeah, Eddie, go ahead and tell her that, she'll just look at you and laugh, she won't know what the hell you're talking about.

It's all the same to her.

Eddie wanted some of her napalm, her hellfire, and he wanted it bad, and he was furious with her, furious that he was practically her fucking saviour and he didn't mean anything more to her than any other dick in the street.

Whoever had done that to her, made it all the same, burned the humanity right out of her, the Comedian wished he could find the bastard, and kill him.

Slow.

But, then, again, the kid had already done that, and that Brooklyn Slasher son-of-a-bitch was already dead and buried.

In his car, driving to the docks together, you could feel it between them, rage and hostility and lust, simmering away, together and threatening to boil over.

They were both praying for trouble as they patrolled the docks that night, big trouble, the kind of fight where you could get in there and really bash the shit out of a whole bunch of guys, anything, anything to put a little quiet in their bad blood, black and boiling hot.

Ready to boil over.

But the docks were quiet.

It was a hot night, humid and miserable and sticky, a hot night in the middle of a killer heat wave that had old people and little kids dropping dead in their apartments.

The kind of night that was only good for two things, fucking and killing, and the Comedian and the Harlequin, not speaking, just glowering at each other, both were hoping for the former rather than the latter.

Eddie Blake was 47 years old, and he had spent 31 of those years as a masked hero. He was a brutal, violent man by nature, and fought in two of the most brutal wars in world history, and almost single-handedly brought one to a close. He cut his teeth fighting in the streets of East New York before he was even ten, and cleaned up the waterfront at 16. His reputation was fearsome; the mere sight of the Comedian, armed with nothing but his fists was enough to make some crowds disperse. He was six foot four and weighted 240 pounds of muscle, and was in better shape than most men half his age.  
The way he saw it, before he could fight the kid to a standstill, she'd probably break his nose, and maybe crack a rib or two, and give him a black eye, at the most.

That is, if she couldn't get him on the ground.

If she got him on the ground he was going to have to shoot her and wing her, unless he wanted his brains all over the pavement.

They were close to done, only a block from the car, and they had made it to the darkest, seediest part of their route. Places where no honest business had ever been done, at least not in the last century. They passed abandoned factories and rowhouses, crumbling old warehouses, and the East River smelled rotten, like garbage and carrion and bodies as it rolled past them.

The hot night only made it worse, making it feel like they were walking in through the back door of Hell.

"Great idea, comin' out tonight, Eddie. I shoulda stayed home in the air-conditioning, with my mask fuckbooks." Liv sniped

"So, tell me, kid, is that your whole sex life? Playin' with yourself, waitin' around for Wednesday, chasin' pathetic groupies, an' trollin' the depths for gutterball drunks like Shellhead?" he asked.

"Fuck you, Eddie! I may not be Raquel Welch, but I get more ass than a toilet seat. Ask your old buddy, Logan. He knows what to do with me when he's got me."

"Yeah. Duck."

"What the fuck is that supposed to mean, you fuckin' old bastard!" she demanded, throwing down the gauntlet.

Oh shit, here we go.

They stopped walking.

Eddie turned to her, and as he spoke, he repeatedly poked his finger at her chest.

"Look, kid, lemme tell you something. When you bothered to quit getting smashed to pieces and put that fuck me daddy costume on, I noticed that you were a real nice-lookin' broad. Then, when you got naked and made a pass at me up at the X-Mansion, I mean, just for a minute there, you actually seemed like a woman to me. Not for long, though. Listen, and I don't care if he is a fuckin' hippie, broads who walk around dressed like grease monkeys with blood and crankcase oil on their fuckin' Rolling Stones tee shirts, always wearin' dungarees and combat boots, don't exactly get a man goin. I mean, unless you're a fag, and you want some other fag to fuck you in your ass, or somethin', tattoos and motor oil don't make your dick hard. Not to mention that I guess even a fag wouldn't want some guy who always looks like his face has just been through a machine and stinks like a fuckin' distillery. I mean, if you ever wanna get laid by somebody who wants to see you again the next day and ain't some kind of junkie derelict biker scumbag, you better go buy a fuckin' dress, and try not to take so many hits in the face. Just quit teasin' me, alright? If you wanna hop on every cock that comes by because you're too fuckin' lazy to be choosy, and too much of a shanty Irish whore to care if it's one man or another, hey, it's your life. But you leave me out of it. I ain't playin' second fiddle to every dick in town. I know all about your silly little game and I'm not playin' it. I wouldn't touch you again with a stolen dick if you had the last pussy on Earth."

Well, the last part was an out and out boldfaced lie, but Eddie said it, anyway, because he knew it would sting the worst.

The way it stung him when he came to San Diego and found her fresh out of bed with Shellhead.

Liv's eyes narrowed into angry, catlike slits, yellowing in rage, and she balled her hands into fists as her nostrils flared in fury.

That evil Joker smile crawled across her face until it was as wide and broad as her Old Man's, and it really didn't make Eddie feel too good.

It made him think he might have gone a little too far.

That deathmatch he didn't want to have?

Oh shit Eddie, the fucking joke's on you.

Then, Liv Napier, who was five foot three or four and 145 pounds to Eddie Blake's six four and two-forty did two things that nobody else had ever been crazy enough to do to the Comedian.

She spit in his face.

Then, she called him a cunt.

"You're not gonna fuckin' talk to me like that, you fuckin' cunt! I'm gonna make you take your fuckin' medicine!"

Eddie was so surprised that she'd spit in his face and called him a cunt that he wasn't ready for the first punch.

Kid had a hell of a right.

He couldn't recall the last time being punched had hurt that bad; she was a lot stronger than she looked and whoever showed her how and where to hit did it right; when the heel of her hand smashed into his nose it smeared it all over his face in a gaudy spray of bright red blood.

Oh yeah.

The Bat, Sally, and Crazy Jack.

Sal had knocked the fuck out of him, once.

He got out of the way at the second shot, which was perfectly aimed at his kidneys from the side, in the unprotected spot where the two parts of his armour joined up that nobody else had ever noticed.

The kid was good.

She had obviously sized him up a long time ago, and he silently cursed himself for forgetting this wasn't some dumb broad he was picking a fight with, this kid was a killer like she'd been trained by the Green Berets, a well-trained and battle-hardened fellow mask.

Still, the sight of his own blood and the mere idea that she actually called him a cunt made rage flare up inside the Comedian like gasoline on an open flame.

And he had sized her up a long time ago, as well.

He knew that even wearing contacts she didn't see so well, so he came around from the blind spot that nobody knew she had in her right eye, which was just a little lazy and gave her the full force right in the face.

Her head turned violently to one side and blood sprayed out of her mouth.

Some of it spattered on him and he really expected her to fall down in a heap.

She didn't.

She didn't?

The last time he'd hit a woman that hard, God save him, was when he decked Sal in the trophy room, all those years ago, and she went down.

But the kid didn't, and she wasn't going to.

Liv staggered back a few steps, shook her head a little, and smiled.

Smiled.

Oh shit.

"Is that all you got for me, old man?" she said.

That was a double insult, too.

She laughed, and spit a mouthful of blood into his eyes, blinding him.

The Comedian couldn't see her, but he had an idea of where she was, and while he was still blinded, he kicked her in the chest; which knocked her over, but she caught his leg and wrenched it, which knocked him over as well

Before Eddie knew it, they were both on the ground, but he was the one who smacked his head on the pavement and she fell across him.

Now he knew he was going to have to wing her to keep her from killing him; it was instinct and training both telling her that now that she took him down, it was time to take him out.

The kid might not be able to help herself, but before he could get his gun out she was sitting on him in such a way that her legs were around his hips and he couldn't get to them.

Her gun, on the other hand, was pointed right between his eyes.

They were both bleeding, and they were both breathing hard.

She was, incidentally, also sitting directly on his cock, and as soon as she realised it, a strange look began to come over her face.

He could tell she wasn't thinking about hitting him, anymore.

"Goddamn you, Eddie, you motherfucker, the night of the Crimebusters meetin', I thought, if push comes to shove, I'll sit on his cock and put a gun to his head and then if he likes breathing he'll hafta come across, and whaddya know, here were are! Now, get this through your head! I sure as hell don't wanna kill you, and I do not want to fight with you, anymore!"

The kid put her gun in its holster, leaned over him, put her hands on either side of his face and laid the most ferocious, desperate, hungry kiss on him that any woman ever had.

That was some kind of fucking kiss, and he thought she might have cut her lip on his tooth but neither of them cared.

Finally, she had figured out how to act like a woman, a desperate woman, a woman who would do anything, God damn anything to get her man.

It wasn't all the same to her, at all.

She might not be a one woman man, but she was him she wanted, he was first.

She wanted him to be her man, she was his girl, after all.

"Baby…" he growled.

Eddie yanked her cowl down and made his hand a fist in her long red hair and kissed her back, but, abruptly, the kid got up off him, with this weird look of confusion on her face and she just turned around and ran away.

"Where the fuck are you goin? C'mon, baby, one little bloody nose don't piss me off! Liv?"

Had he not been on the ground, you could have knocked him over with a feather.

That was it.

She had probably never wanted to hit him to begin with, it was just that, like somebody else he used to know, the mean, rotten little bastard didn't know how to ask nice.

And there Eddie was, lying in the street on his back with a raging hard-on and blood dripping out of his nose.

Jesus H. Christ, what a fucking night.

He got up and ran after her, and it took some running to catch her, the kid could run like a fucking deer.

"Where the fuck are you goin'?"

"Leave me alone, Eddie! Fuckin' leave me alone! I'll hurt you! I will! I can't help it! Don't you say no to me! Not anymore!" She snarled.

In a way, it was funny.

In another way, it wasn't.

It was like being in a cage with a wild animal.

Fortunately, Eddie knew how to defuse the situation.

"Ya will, huh? Ya know somethin' kid, I believe you would. But I seemed pretty willing back there, didn't I?"

The kid nodded.

"That's right. But this ain't what you call the time or the place. Settle down. Let's get the fuck out of here and go get cleaned up and have a fucking drink, alright? C'mon."

***

He wanted to get her home, but the Comedian had to set the kid straight on something, so that he would never find himself looking down the barrel of the kid's gun again because nobody had ever taught her any manners.

They went to Grossmann's Deli, a mask's home away from home, and after cleaning themselves up in the johns, Eddie was buying.

The kid looked downright bewildered, like she couldn't believe what the fuck she was doing a little while ago.

"Jesus, I'm sorry, Eddie. I don't know what came over me."

"I do. We got a bigger problem here than I thought we did. Look, kid, fuckin' ain't like most things. You, you're like me when I was a kid. All your life, you see somethin' you need, you take it. You never wait for anybody to say you can have it, if you need it, you take it. And if somebody says that you can't have it and you need it, you figure, fuck you, and you beat the shit out of them, and then take it. That's how it works in the street. That's how you survive. Well, fucking doesn't work that way."

"I know that! I'm not stupid!"

"The fuck you do! Look, kid. Think about it, in your whole life, didja ever ask anybody nice? The minute you had me on my back, the first thing you thought was, fuck this motherfucker, if he won't give it to me, I'll take it from him. He'll like me well enough when he can either get it up for me or I turn his head into a canoe. Like I said, I tried that approach with Sally Jupiter, and I didn't get what I wanted. She was older than me and I guess she was playing some little game with me I didn't understand. Comin' onto me, teasin' me, givin' me the old bedroom eyes an' tellin' me she was gonna go change her clothes. I guess if I woulda just let well enough alone, I woulda got what I wanted, anyway, eventually. But what the fuck did I know? I was young, dumb, and full of come, and I wanted her so bad that just lookin' at her made my balls hurt for a week. I wasn't even thinkin' how I was hurtin' her when I was slappin' the shit outa her, even though she was callin' me by name and screamin' for me to stop. I wasn't thinkin'. My dick was doin' all the thinkin' an' I was followin' it right off the Brooklyn Bridge. An' I got kicked outa the fuckin' Minutemen, Sal didn't talk to me for another ten years and that fuck Hollis Mason wrote a book about me being the biggest prick in the world. And, yunno, I really liked Sal. Maybe if I hadn't been such a fuckin' asshole we coulda had somethin'. Her life didn't turn out too great either, yunno. But I blew it. Ya gotta ask nice, kid. And ya can't make somebody come across. Ya never get what ya want that way, unless you're some sick fuck, and what ya want is to hurt somebody. Jesus, kid, didn't nobody ever tell you nothing about fucking?"

"Nothing like that. People don't tell shit like that to women."

"That's because most broads worry about somebody rapin' them at gunpoint, they ain't crazy enough to try it with a man twice their size." The Comedian chuckled.

He felt really bad for the kid.

It was more than half his fault, treating her the way he had.

Comin' onto her before, and then cuttin' her off without a word, and turnin' on her like the mean old junkyard mutt he was.

"Jesus, Eddie, I'm sorry. I dunno what came over me. But when you started sayin all that shit about me, I got so mad, I wanted to fuckin' kill you! Then, I was thinkin' about keepin' you from gettin' to your guns and that's why I jumped on top of you, but then, all the sudden, I didn't feel like killin' you anymore, an'…an' I don't know what I was thinkin, then. Like you said, I wasn't thinkin'. Jesus, what the fuck is the matter with me? Look, Eddie, I don't wantcha to think I'm some kinds fuckin' freak show. I mean, I'm not into the rough stuff, I don't need to be slapped around and I don't need to start wavin' guns around to get off. Yunno?"

"I already know that, kid. I know what ya like. Remember?"

"Sure I remember. You think I can forget? Jesus, Eddie, why you gotta blow hot and cold on me? I can't take it."

"Because I been so fuckin' mad at youse since ya ran off with Shellhead, I was pretty close to puttin' a gun to your head, myself."

"Ya were? Why?"

"Why? What the fuck do you mean, why? I take youse on as an apprentice, I do everything I can to help youse out, get youse into the MORC for rehab, letcha crash at my house, and you go over the wall to TJ and shack up with that spoiled rich cunt? Helluva way for a girl to treat a man, yunno?"

"Hey, Eddie, I'm sorry, but, I'm not just a shanty Irish drunk, I'm a shanty Irish whore."

"Shut the fuck up with that shit, kid! You ain't no whore. You just ain't dumb enough to swallow that you and me and nobody else one man one woman Ozzie and Harriet bullshit. I got no problem with that, but when you start puttin' whoever the fuck ahead of me, I don't like it."

"Jesus, Eddie, it wasn't like that! You don't know what the MORC is like! It's like fuckin' jail. They got cameras in all the rooms, so even if I wanted to get down with some cat, I couldn't have. And all the orderlies, they were strictly from hunger. An' if I want these mask guys to have any fuckin' respect for me, I can't just start screwin' them right and left. It's fuckin' embarrassin. They took my booze, I wasn't gettin' any, an' they put me in fuckin' lockdown. So, I busted out. I'm loaded for bear, here. And I run into a good-lookin' guy that I get along alright with, and he wants to do some serious fuckin' and drinkin'? I couldn't help myself. I didn't forget youse, Eddie. It's just that, well, I'm just not a one man woman. Honest, you come first in my book, but you was a long way away, and I wasn't gettin' to come at all. Yunno?"

Eddie bit his lip to keep from laughing.

"Kid, you're one crazy, dirty, horny, homicidal little bad pixie from Hell."

"And you're the meanest, baddest son of a bitch I ever knew."

"I'll drink to that. How's your jaw?"

"Alright. Ya hit me on the bionic side."

"The what?"

"This whole side of my face, it's practically all metal. Titainuim-adamantium alloy. All my teeth on that side are implants. Screwed right into my jaw, which is mostly metal and pins. That was all they could do, after I got my face caved in when those punks beat me with the rebar. When I figured you was gonna slug me, I turned that side toward you."

"That was a pretty good, move, kid."

"Yeah, well, you got some pretty good moves, too, Eddie."

He put his hand on her thigh, under the table.

"Is that right, kid?"

"Jesus, Eddie, don't! The way I feel, I'll be under that table in seconds, and the cops will hafta come with a fire truck and the Jaws of Life to get my lips off your cock."

This time, the Comedian laughed so hard, he almost fell outa the booth.

"Now that's what I call askin' nice! C'mon, let's get the fuck outa here. I got plans for you. Big plans."

"Ya do, Eddie?"

"Kid, I had plans for you the night at the Crimebusters meeting when I realised you was all grown up, an' I told you to quit callin' me Mr. Blake. I wish you didn't have a bullet in your guts, the last five or six years of bullshit youse went through never would happened. Finish your drink. These fucking leathers are gettin' tighter by the minute."

"Ya ain't sore that I socked ya?"

"Naaah. I was askin for it. C'mon, baby. Let's go play house."

_(Author's Note: Well, at least nobody died. Yet. Now what? Is this…love? As Rorschach would say: Hurm.)_


	5. Fire

**Chapter Five: Fire**

**I:Eddie**

As soon as they got in the door of his apartment, the Comedian slammed it behind them, threw the butt of his stogie into the nearest ashtray, grabbed the Harlequin around her waist and kissed her, violently, pressing her shoulders against the wall.

She pushed back, gasping, sharply.

He felt a twinge of pain in his face, and remembered that they had just knocked each other around pretty good.

"You alright, kid? I didn't hurtcha, did I?"

"What? Hell no, Eddie. I toleja, ya hit the bionic side of my face. Listen, ya gonna give it to me, tonight? I mean, you gave me the best head I ever had, but, there ain't nothin' like the real thing." Liv replied.

He smiled in reply.

"Oh, you're gonna get it, alright. I'm gonna scratch that itch for ya like no man ever scratched it before. Or ever will, again."

They rolled each other down the wall, each taking a turn with their shoulders smacked against it, growling and gasping for air, knocking pictures down in small explosions of splintered wood and shattering glass, furiously fumbling with each other's body armor.

Armour that was designed to keep intruders out, not invite them in for a good time.

The Comedian was so frustrated that he slammed his fist right through the wall.

"Fuck! Is your fuckin' costume completely fuckproof, kid?"

"Mine? Jesus, Eddie, whaddya do when youse gotta take a piss?" Liv demanded.

"Let me do it." He snarled.

He couldn't get the one of the straps undone.

"Goddamn motherfucker, what the fuck is this! Fuck!"

"Lemme try it again. It's fucking stuck, the cocksucker! Lemme get a good grip on it…there it goes!"

The strap was in her hand, she ripped it off.

Eddie just looked at her.

"Kid, that strap was supposed to be bombproof."

"What can I say, Eddie? I mean if I want your ass bad enough I'd hold a gun to your head, shit, I'm thermonuclear."

The Comedian grinned.

The parts of Liv's costume that weren't armoured with Kevlar were made out of a combination of spandex, cotton and and canvas fabric that was guaranteed to be rip-proof.

Eddie grabbed hold of two handfuls of it, and pulled, tearing the whole top in half along the seams, ripping right through the space-age Kevlar chest plate.

"That's what I call splittin' the atom, kid."

"Goddamn Eddie, you're one romantic son of a bitch." Liv marvelled.

She and Eddie both laughed, and then they launched themselves at each other again, with a far greater ferocity than when they had fought.

Their hearts had just not been in killing each other.

Swearing horribly, the two masked avengers went through the process of taking off their masks and costumes and weapons as they moved towards the bedroom and the bed, leaving a mask here and a gun or a boot or a belt there along the way.

Liv had managed to pull off all of her clothes by the time she got the door shut, and while Eddie was taking the A-line undershirt he wore under his armour off as she pulled him over to the bed, she was taking off his shorts.

All of her long red hair was falling over her, and over the bed, and over him, and she was panting, and had this fucking crazy look in her eye.

The Comedian stepped out of his shorts and the Harlequin slid backwards towards the headboard.

She smiled that slow, lazy, sloe-eyed leer at him and stretched out all over the king-sized bed, reaching for him with her arms and her legs as he climbed into bed.

When she was naked, the kid wasn't just a pretty little pixie, she was a real fucking knockout.

"I take it all back. Kid, you're on fire."

"C'mon, scratch my itch, Eddie. C'mon….c'mon, scratch it real good."

There was no fear in her eyes.

There had been no fear in her eyes a few hours earlier, when he was mad enough to kill her, only rage and lust, why should there be fear in her eyes, now?

Because women were terrified of him.

He could be naked, in bed with them, and they were screaming his name and clinging to him, and coming their brains out, but if he could get a good look at them, it was still there, that tiny hint of fear.

Eddie ran his hand up the kid's big, round, strong white thigh, and brushed his fingers against her hot, swollen little button.

Wet for him, already.

She groaned, and her eyelids fluttered, but when they opened again, there was no fear in her eyes.

None at all.

"Aren't you afraid of me, baby? Not even a little bit?"

Laughter.

Thick, diabolical laughter and that hard little hand with the tattoo of the skull and crossbones on it sliding up and down his cock.

"Aren't you afraid of me, Eddie?" she asked.

She laughed, again, and he covered her laugh with a kiss, ran his lips down her neck, to join his hands on her tits, that were bigger than his hands and she was moaning and arching off the bed, almost thrusting her hard nipple into his mouth.

He ran fast little circles around it with his tongue, rolling her other nipple between his fingers.

"Ooooo, oooo, Eddie, oh, fuck…"

She gets real hot, real fast.

She was grinding her bush against his leg, her red little bush and it was burning, she was desperate, her hand groping for his cock, reaching over his.

Fire, hellfire bubbling out of her.

Get your hand out of the fire or you'll get your fingers burned.

"Eddie, Eddie, Jesus, Eddie, don't play with me anymore, I can't take it."

"I'm done playin' with you, doll, when I'm done playin' with you."

Time to get another little taste of hellfire.

Goddamn, she was even hotter than she had been the last time.

She pulled his hair, a little, but Eddie didn't care, he knew what they meant by crazy from the heat, like sweet teenage pussy and red-hot lust.

"…oooo, don't stop, ya sunnuvabitch….oooo…aw, shit….YOW! YOW, OW, OW, AWWW FUCK…"

Pulling his hair pretty good now.

"…Eddie, Eddie, EDDIE! YOWOOOOO…"

And howling like a dog.

And it wasn't the first time she came, it was probably the second or third.

He got on top of her, her sweaty long hair all over both of them, all over the bed, he pushed it out of her face and kissed her on the lips.

"Gimme some of your hellfire, baby. Burn me down." Eddie growled.

Hot?

Hell wasn't as hot, and heaven couldn't have been as sweet as fucking her was.

Those round, strong, big white thighs wrapped around him, her curses and her moans and her sighs and the way she moved with him, squeezing his cock in her little red snapper.

Eddie wasn't usually interested in being good for the broad's sake; he wanted to show them he was the best, mark them, make it so every time they ever laid down with another man it was him they were thinking of.

It was a matter of pride.

With Liv, it was different.

Words weren't going to show her that she was his girl.

And words weren't going to scratch that itch, that bone-deep itch; he had to show her that he was what she was out there in the street looking for, she'd found it.

Make her his.

His girl.

"Oooo….oooo…oooo, Eddie, oooo, like that…just like that, oh _fuck_!"

Her eyes were closed.

"Open your eyes, honey. Open' em up an' look at me."

Liv opened her eyes.

That wasn't rage, and it wasn't fear, and it wasn't just lust.

"That's my girl."

Then he found it, her sweet spot, found it in a howl of pleasure, in her arms and her legs wrapping around him, gasps and growls and moans.

"Eddie…Eddie…more…more…"

So he gave it to her.

Yes he did.

"…ohhhh, that's it, Eddie…awww, fuck, fuck, FUCK, THAT'S IT!"

Jesus, God in Heaven, the way she was squeezing his cock…

Stars, I'm seein' stars.

Sweat broke out on the Comedian's forehead, and on his chest and in the small of his back where those hard tattooed little hands grasped him.

He didn't know if he was coming or going.

Put his arm around her, pulled her up off the bed, held her hard against his chest.

"Fuck, baby, you are so GOD-DAMN HOT! Rrrrr….rrrr…RRRRROWWWARRRRRRR!"

Now she's got me roaring like a fuckin' animal.

Once he hit the target, twice, boom, boom, two shots, and there she goes again.

I'm shakin' like a leaf, I'm sweatin' like a pig, I can't catch my breath, I don't know where I am.

"Shit, oh shit, goddamn, honey, goddamn!" Eddie breathed into the kid's shoulder.

They fell back onto the bed.

She was sweating too, heaving for breath, gasping.

Her hand was in his hair again, stroking now, not pulling.

"Mmmmm, Eddie,I was right about you. That was it, that was it, that was fuckin' everything."

He rolled off of her, over onto his back, and he felt drunk, dead drunk, almost.

"Scratched that itch for ya, huh, kid?"

"You sure did, Eddie. Fuckin' A, you sure did."

***

Liv Napier was stretched out across more than half of Eddie Blake's king sized bed, her eyes closed with a happy little smile on her face, a half-conscious pool of slow, sleepy satisfaction.

She was pretty foggy on where she was, fairly foggy on when it was and even a biz hazy on who she was, again, but she felt good, damn good, from the tips of her hair to the blunt ends of her fingernails to the tops of her toes.

What itch?

Where?

Somebody in the room was singing, or humming and somebody got up and the bed was lighter, and when it was heavier again she rolled over one way and almost fell out of bed, so then she rolled over the other way and met up with something solid that was larger and hairier than she was.

Eddie put his arm around her.

"Goddamn, kid, I'm glad you didn't fight me the way you just fucked me, I'd be dead." He chuckled.

"I can't make a fist. I don't even know what my name is. Eddie, you're the best, man. I been waitin' for you since I was 13 years old, and it was fuckin' worth it. You're the best. Ever." Liv mumbled.

She sort of wished she had a cigarette and she looked up at Eddie and he wasn't smoking, just lying there and staring at the ceiling, smiling to himself.

Well, let him.

"Am I, now?" he chuckled.

She sat up, suddenly.

"Are you fuckin' makin' fun of me, ya sunnuvabitch?"

"No! Jesus, kid, you're jumpy. I can see you've met some real nice guys, who treated youse real good. Christ. Fuckin' assholes."

"Yeah, well, I ain't just bullshittin' youse, Eddie. That was even better than when we was in that hotel room. And don't tell me I was dreamin'. I know when I'm havin' some kinda half-assed 15-minute dream about gettin' fucked, and I know when I'm gettin' fucked all night. What the fuck was that shit about, anyway?"

"I didn't wanna get involved, kid."

"Who said anything about us gettin' involved?"

"I did. Look, before this goes any further, I gotta lay out some rules for youse. Rules I'm gonna stick to, too. You're my girl. Act like it. Don't fuck any masks I work close with. Don't fuck anybody I'm related to. And don't fuck anybody else but me under my roof. That includes my car. If youse can do that for me, I can do the same for youse. Sound fair?"

"Jesus, Eddie, whaddya mean, I'm your girl?"

"Kid, you been my girl for months now, you was just gettin' all the bullshit and none of the benefits. Well?"

Liv sat up.

She had a funny look on her face, the kind of look most broads get when some asshole slaps them in the chops.

"What?"

"Jeeziz, Eddie, nobody ever wanted me to be their old lady, before. Nobody never wanted me for more'n hello an' goodbye. Maybe another hello an' goodbye somewhere down the line, but that was it. Except Logan. But we're just good friends. Are ya sure about this, Eddie? Cos, I mean, I ain't no picnic. Not even for me, yunno? I mean, ya don't hafta do it on my account. We can just, yunno…"

Eddie felt his blood boiling again.

If I catch just one asshole, just one, who treated my girl like a piece of garbage, I'll rip his dick off and stuff it up his ass.

"Kid, did I just get done sayin' you was my girl? You know the last time I said that to a broad? Sophie. Back in 1945. An' I think I only said it because we both just got back from the war. You know who else I said it to? Sal. That's it. Story's over. So I'm sure. You're my girl. Alright?"

"Yeah, Eddie. Alright. I'm your old lady, and you're my old man."

The kid looked happy, she looked real happy, she looked like she was over the moon.

"Then what are ya doin' all the way the hell over there? C'mere?"

Eddie was feeling pretty damn good, himself.

He was lying there with Liv for awhile, trying to figure out if he was too hungry to go to sleep.

He was.

"Ya hungry, kid? Alla sudden, I'm fuckin' starvin'!"

"Yeah, me too."

"Alright, you stay here. I'm gonna call down to Grossmann's for take out."

Benny always had Paulie deliver the take-out orders at night, Sophie paid him gas money and twenty bucks a week for it.

And he got to keep his tips.

When Paulie made the delivery to his Uncle's place, he saw Liv walk out of his uncle's bedroom, in her underwear, heading for the can.

She waved.

"Hiya, Paulie."

"Hey, Napalm."

Paulie gave his uncle the bag of food, and Eddie paid him, and gave him a five dollar tip.

"Hey, Uncle Eddie, I gotta know. What's it like? Yunno. With Napalm. I ain't innarested, I just wanna know."

"I'm glad you ain't, Paulie. For one thing, she's my girl. For another, well, ya know what Napalm does?"

"Burns things down?"

"Yeah. G'night, Paulie."

***

After they had their food, they both fell asleep, and when they woke up Saturday morning was coming through the windows, and they both had a smoke.

Eddie locked the front door, made sure all the blinds were closed, unplugged the phone, locked the bedroom door and went back to bed.

They caught their second wind.

And their third.

"Jesus, Eddie, are ya some kinda mutant?"

"You complainin'?"

"Hell, no! Just goes ta show I been right all along?"

"About what?"

"Nothin' like a real good fuck from a real bad man."

Eddie just laughed.

***

On that Saturday morning, the Comedian missed three personal phone calls from President Nixon, who, paranoid as usual, sent a Secret Service agent to pose as a window washer on the skyscraper the superhero lived in.

The blinds never opened, so the agent put a stethoscope to all the windows.

He solved the mystery when he listened in at the bedroom window.

First, there was the sound of a mattress, squeaking in a furious rhythm.

And of a bedpost, maybe a whole headboard, battering against a wall.

And then…

"…who's my girl, baby? Who's my little girl?"

"….oooo, fuck, Eddie, I am…I am…oooo, Daddy…oh, FUCK!!!…"

The red-faced agent tore the stethoscope from his ears, and hastily ended his mission.

He reported back on Saturday afternoon that the Comedian and his apprentice, the Harlequin, were having a busy weekend, and the phone was probably unplugged, if not ripped from the wall.

"Busy weekend?" Nixon asked.

The operative cleared his throat, and his face turned cherry red.

"Very busy, Mr. President. Together, sir."

"Hmmm, what? Together? I don't follow. So he's with his apprentice? Can't he answer his goddamn telephone?"

The agent cleared his throat.

"Together, sir. In his bedroom, sir."

"Oh! Oh I see! That kind of together, huh? Well, that's Eddie for you. He's a real horny son of a bitch. Women love him. Especially the bad, crazy kind. Like fucking catnip. Well, that was bound to happen. I see, well, then, I think I'll call back on Monday. Busy. Together. 22 year old redhead. Lucky son of a bitch." Nixon replied.

***

On Sunday, after breakfast, which the kid insisted on cooking, they watched some TV, wore out the couch a little, and then went back to bed.

"Hey kid?"

"Yeah, Eddie."

"I hear all these tattoos ya got, they all mean somethin'. Ya wanna tell me?"

The kid got that surprised and hopeful look on her face, again.

"Ya really wanna know, Eddie?"

"Yeah."

"Okay. Here's my first one. Up on my shoulder. That's the Napier Family Crest. I got that after I made my bones, ya know, when I killed that guy who shot me an' Uncle Mac. Well, not right away. I got it when I was 13. That didn't even leave a scar, but yunno, that was the beginnin' of all of it. An this one, on the back of my hand? The skull and crossbones? It means no quarter. I got it after I got beat with the rebar, in '66. Look here. Under my hair. Ya see that scar by my ear? From my temple to my chin? Put ya finger on it. It's grooved, like the rebar."

"I know, kid. I could feel it under my hands, when I had 'em in your hair. That's a bad one." "It was pretty bad. But I got that tattoo, on my right hand, right there, to remind me. No quarter. They ain't givin' any, so I ain't, neither. An' this tattoo, on my bicep? The one of the phoenix rising out of the fire? I got that one after the bullet I took in the guts, when I went to the Crimebusters meeting. That was the craziest thing I ever did, it almost killed me, but I made it, an' I came back stronger, I wanted to show you guys I had it, and prove Ozzy wrong. That's what that one's for."

Liv pointed to her other bicep.

"In '67, they officially made me a JLA trainee, so I got the JLA symbol tattooed on my other bicep. The Watchtower symbol. Only members can have that. Then, later on that year, some nice fella cut me this new smile."

Eddie had noticed the thin scar on her throat, from ear to ear, but part of it was obscured by the band of Celtic knotwork she had tattooed all around her neck, that met in a big circular design at her throat.

"I know what that one is. Your grandmother gave my Ma a necklace like that. To protect her from the Old Man. It worked, too. I killed him about a month later. Ma swore by it. She was buried with it."

"I figure, better safe than sorry. Well, things got pretty quiet, for awhile, as far as almost gettin' killed. When I graduated college, in '68, I got the Tree of Life on my left forearm. They call it the Tree of Knowledge, too. Anyway, then I met up with the Brooklyn Slasher in '70, and ya know what I did to him. That's the scar on my back, above my shoulder blade, where he stuck that knife in me. This tattoo, here, right between the JLA and the Tree of Life, the gryphon? I got that after I defeated him. It's for courage and boldness. Fierceness, too. A sign of nobility. Pop's suggestion. I always liked it, but it took awhile for me to come around to his way of thinkin'. But I guess it took a lotta courage to kill that bastard. And maybe it was noble, in a way, because I saved the lives of all those women he woulda killed, if I didn't stop him."

"Ya had a busy year in 1970, huh?"

"Yeah. I got this bullet scar, here, big, nasty one ya can put your finger in the exit wound. That was from when I went up to the Great White North with my good buddy, Slim MacLeod. Some friend! The motherfucker shot me in my car while I was sleeping and left me to die in a puddle of blood and broken glass along the highway in the Yukon. But, I met Logan, and we spent the summer together, an' I made a real good friend, an' there's blood between us, so I got the tattoo right over the entry wound part of the scar, up here, by my shoulder. Just missed my heart. The ink my guy used to tattoo these three claw marks was mixed in with some of my blood and some of Logan's. Just ta cement things. Now, moving onto my other arm, these are all recent. This one at the top, on my bicep, the Thor's hammer? That's not a tattoo. Thor touched me with his hammer and wrote it on me in lightening. With all the runes around it. I'm a warrior for Asgard now, and Valhalla, I am coming. That's for the Church of Humanity thing. I got a scar right above my eyebrow from that, it's the only scarring I had, and that almost killed me. Just below it, the tattoo of the sword with the bloody tip, and all the knots and symbols on it? I had dreams, after that night, almost for a month, about going back into that building, with a sword of gold with a platinum blade, with blood on the tip, and these symbols, like the ones in my grandmother's book, engraved on it. I figured it was some kind of vision, so that was the tattoo I got for it. And this last one, here on my forearm, the smile face? That's for you an' me, Eddie. For the day I saved your life and ya made me your partner. An' now, your girl."

"That's right, kid. My girl. The tattooed lady."

"Does it bother you, Eddie? All my tattoos? And the scars? I mean, those are just the big tattoos for the big scars. If I got tattoos for the little ones, shit, I would be the tattooed lady."

"Nah, kid. It don't bother me. They look good on ya. An' at least your tattoos mean somethin'. Now Sal, somewhere along the line, she gotta tattoo of Mickey Mouse on her ass. Prob'ly when she was drunk. Ya know me, I never went for nice girls, anyway. I kinda like not knowin' if some crazy, bad, mean broad is gonna kiss me or kill me. Keeps things innarestin'."

He was about to reach for her, but Liv looked at the clock, and sprang out of bed.

"Oh shit!" she said.

Eddie found himself embracing a pillow.

He tossed it aside.

"Hey, Liv, where the fuck do ya think you're going?"

"I gotta go home, Eddie! You know, Sunday dinner with my family?"

She left the bedroom, heading for the can.

Eddie got out of bed.

"Whaddya mean it's dinnertime on Sunday? How could it be dinnertime on Sunday, already?" he yelled.

"Whaddya want? Me ta explain it to ya in terms of quantum fuckin' theory? It's dinnertime on Sunday!" She yelled back.

"Shit, I gotta go have dinner with my family! Edie'll shit a brick! Jesus Christ, kid, you're fuckin' my brains out. We ain't been outa this fuckin' apartment in two days. Willya hurry up in there? And don't use up all the hot water."

"Are you complainin'?"

"Yeah. I'm complainin'. Sure."

"You think maybe you can come over to my place at Wayne Manor, later on? I'll leave the door unlocked for ya."

"What if somebody else shows up? Some burglar, or somethin'?"

"I'll break his fuckin' neck with my bare hands. I'll rip his fuckin' spine out through his mouth. I feel like fuckin' Superman, what the fuck do I care?"

Liv came out of the shower, laughing, and Eddie couldn't help but laugh with her.

That's my girl.

"So, you gonna be there, Eddie?"

"You bet your ass, kid."

**III: Bruce**

There was a joke going that Batman and the Joker were both such meticulous men that they wrote their battles into their schedules, and made appointments for them.

Liv Napier, raised by both men, though many things, was just as methodical, and there were some things about her you could set your watch by.

She was never late for work.

She had Wednesdays with Wolverine.

There were others, like Wednesdays and Thursdays were her nights off, and she always ate lunch at Grossmann's, every day, between noon and one, except on Friday, when she had lunch at the Gunga Diner with Hollis Mason, and Sundays she did her laundry, every four Sundays, but one of the more important ones was that Liv never missed Sunday dinner with her family, come hell or high water.

Bruce and Dick were sitting at the table in the kitchen, and Alfred had the food on the table when she finally came in.

"Sorry I'm late, I lost track of time. Almost killed myself on my goddam way home. People drivin' like shit, yunno. Busy weekend."

She wasn't late because she had been in a fight, she was clean, her clothes were clean, her hair was still damp, like she had just taken a shower.

"Where have you been all weekend?"

That was Dick asking; Bruce had long since got to the point where if Liv was happy and healthy and unharmed, he didn't want to know.

"At Eddie's place."

That was why he didn't want to know.

Because she looked a little too happy.

It had been a long way back from the Brooklyn Slasher.

Liv had retuned home from her sojurn with Logan in the summer of 1970 reasonably sane, and ready to work, and his friendship kept her alive, until the Comedian took her on as an apprentice, and, since then, and her trip to rehab, Liv had been coming back to her old, happy-go-lucky, cheerful self. Pretty much the way she had been before the Brooklyn Slasher, and before, in the days before she became a degenerate alcoholic.

Which Bruce was very happy about, himself, but this was different.

She was over the moon happy, shining like the top of the Chrysler Building happy, lit up like Christmas tree at Rockefeller Center and about to start singing happy.

Bruce had a feeling he knew why, and he didn't want to know why.

_Bruce, just be happy that she loves somebody, that she found a man to love her._

_ Or something like it._

_ Don't worry about who it is, be happy she's happy._

_ What have you got to say about it, for Christ's sake, you're involved with Catwoman! _

"Dick, this is Sunday dinner, not an interrogation. Liv was with her partner, she's here, now."

"Would you like wine with dinner, Miss Napier?" Alfred asked.

"Thank you, Alfred."

"I see you've been staying sober, Liv. That's good. How was your Evolutionary Biology class on Friday? Is Pete Parker still your star pupil?" Bruce asked.

"Yeah, that's Pete, alright. He's gonna make one hell of a scientist. I think I'm gonna hire him as my assistant. He's always broke. Crime only pays, apparently, when you're a criminal, a dirty cop, or a lawyer on either side. Not a mask." Liv commented.

"What were you doing there, all weekend?" Dick protested.

"Couldja pass the potatoes, Pop?"

"Here you are, Liv."

"These are really good, Alfred. You gotta show me how to make this dish."

"I just learned, myself. From one of those cooking programs, actually. We'll put the finishing touches on it, together."

"Why isn't anybody answering me?" Dick insisted.

"Because, Master Dick, it's not polite to discuss such things at the dinner table." Alfred told him.

"What things?" Dick asked.

Bruce Wayne dropped his fork onto his plate as Liv leered, mischievously at her brother.

He could tell she was about to do or say something awful.

Like the time when she was 13, and she explained to Dick what a blow job was, complete with demonstration.

Bruce had to ban bananas from the table for quite some time.

"I think I'll go down to the wine cellar, and get us a new bottle. Mr. Wayne, would you like to come with me, and make a selection?" Alfred hurriedly insisted.

"Yes, Alfred, I would."

Liv waited until her stepfather and his stepfather were gone.

"Hey, Dick, y'wanna know what I was doing all weekend? Lemme illustrate."

She made a circle with her thumb and forefinger of her left hand , into which she lewdly moved the forefinger of her right hand rapidly in and out of.

"OH MY GOD!"

Liv started laughing.

"What is the matter with you?" Dick insisted.

"Me? What's the matter with you? You're the only 24 year old virgin on the Eastern Seaboard! C'mon, try something, Dick. Go out with a guy. Anything. Ya wanna be like Rorschach? He doesn't even touch himself, and he's not a real happy guy."

"I am not a…a…a virgin! I have a girlfriend, thank you!"

"You balled Babs? Finally? Holy shit, my big brother's a man now! We gotta have a party!"

"You are so disgusting! How could you let Eddie Blake do…do…do…_do it_ to you?!"

"Now, don't get on your high horse with me, Dick. This isn't one of my usual things. I'm gonna be Eddie's old lady, and he's gonna be my old man."

"Oh my God! He's your boyfriend!"

Bruce and Alfred returned to the table.

"Bruce, did you hear that?"

"I left the table so I wouldn't have to."

"He's going to be her boyfriend! Her boyfriend!"

"That's what I didn't want to hear. Mind your own business, Dick."

"Jeeziz, Dick, don't be so childish. Anybody older than 12 don't have a boyfriend. Can I have another glass of wine, Pop? This'll be my third drink, today."

"Certainly."

"I can't believe it. Of all the guys in New York, all the sleazy, no-good, middle-aged degenerate hard cases, most of whom you've been to bed with, you have to pick Eddie Blake to be your boyfriend!" Dick exclaimed.

Bruce dropped his fork onto his plate, and his head into his hand.

"Master Grayson!" Alfred protested.

"Jeeeeee-ziz, Dick, not in front of Pop! Shut the fuh- I mean, the hell up, willya? Guys don't want to know this shit about their daughters!"

"Well?"

Bruce poured himself another glass of wine.

"What's for dessert tonight, Alfred?"

"Miss Napier made a chocolate cake for our dessert earlier this week. Shall I save a piece for Mr. Blake, Miss Napier?"

"Thank you, Alfred."

"But he's a killer!"

"Do be quiet, Mr. Grayson! What do you think happens to the criminals your stepfather drops off rooftops? Do you imagine they sprout wings? Mr. Blake is the man who saved your sister's life, helped her to gain sobriety, and repair her reputation in the profession you and Mr. Wayne and Miss Napier share. I think we can spare the man a bloody piece of cake, if you don't mind my saying so, Mr. Wayne."

"I couldn't have said it better, Alfred. Dick, settle yourself. Eat your dessert and quit badgering your sister. Save a piece for Miss Kyle too, will you, Alfred."

"One for Catwoman, too? Why don't we just bake some cookies for the Penguin!"

Robin left the table, and went to his room.

"Gee, I guess this would be the wrong time to mention that I took a piece up to Arkham for the Old Man, on the day I baked it." Liv cracked.

"It's not funny, Liv. Sometimes I worry about your brother. He gets so…rigid and puritanical, sometimes. I thought he was gay, for awhile, but he doesn't have boyfriends, either. It's not normal, at his age."

"He's had Babs Gordon."

"Really? That's a relief. I was going to take him to see a doctor. This is good cake."

"Thanks, Pop. I'll take Dick's piece of cake up to him."

***

Dinner was over, Bruce was at work in the Batcave and Liv had helped Alfred wash up and was sitting at the kitchen table doing the New York Times crossword when Barbara Gordon, AKA Batgirl, arrived.

"Where's Dick?"

"He's upstairs havin' a shit fit because he don't like my old man. Not my father. Yunno, my old man." Liv explained.

"You're finally settling down?"

"Kinda. I mean, we ain't doin' the whole monogamy thing, but, yeah."

"With the Comedian?"

"Yeah."

"Dick's funny about things like that. I mean, he's not a queer or a weirdo or anything, he's pretty normal, with me, but he's very…uptight."

"I know another guy like that. Scott Summers."

"That's what I've heard. Well, I guess I'll go upstairs and see him. He'll probably be all upset, and indignant. And not in the mood. There goes my Sunday night."

"I hear that from Jean Grey all the time. Hey, Babs, yunno, certain people are still at the bughouse, and certain people's crazy girlfriend, Harley, is still at Riker's, and hasn't been transferred to Arkham, yet, and they do have late visiting hours on weekends. And certain people keep late nights."

"I know. I was there, yesterday. But, not tonight. I promised Dick."

"You're a good egg, Babs."

"I know. I'll probably live to regret it."

**III: Laurie**

It was 9:10, and Liv was late for work.

Liv was never late for work.

If she was physically unable to get out of bed, which was rare, she'd call off, but Liv was _never_ late for work.

Jon didn't seem too upset, but Laurie was.

She had come to the lab to talk to Liv, because, lately she couldn't sleep at night.

She was up late, thinking about how and why so many roads in her life led back to Edward Morgan Blake.

Her mother seemed to be completely of two minds about him. Sometimes when she spoke about him he was a monster, an animal, and she couldn't believe he had the nerve to call her, that son-of-a-bitch.

More than once, though, she had called her mother in California, and before Sally started talking she heard, "Ssh, Eddie, Laurie's on the phone!"

But he was a lot of people, Eddie Blake was.

When she was 11, she found out he was the Comedian, and in those days, she and Liv had just thought the Comedian was the coolest mask in the world.

But, then again, before she knew he was the Comedian, Laurie had known Eddie Blake all her life as her friend Paulie's uncle, her Mom's cleaning lady and babysitter, Edie's older brother.

Paulie idolised his Uncle Eddie, and Edie and her brother were very close; Laurie wasn't sure if they were twins or not; they seemed to be the same age and looked alike.

When that pusher kid attacked them with a knife and they thought Liv was dead and the cops were coming for them, they hid behind his legs, her and Paulie.

Laurie could still remember being 11 and terrified and hanging onto Paulie's uncle's dirty work pants, and the way he put his arm around her, with hand on her head, comforting her and shielding her at the same time.

It made her feel like she was safe.

Around that time, Eddie Blake also surfaced as an old friend of her mother's from The Good Old Days, and the least peripatetic of her mother's on-again, off-again, boyfriends.

He was there more often than any other man, and she saw him, sometimes in the mornings, when she got up too early, sometimes late at night when she couldn't sleep and went to the kitchen for a snack.

He made her breakfast a few times, Laurie remembered because her mother couldn't cook, it was always cereal for breakfast; when she thought about it, Eddie had taught her how to cook, he made breakfast for her, showed her how to make scrambled eggs so they were fluffy.

She still put milk in with her scrambled eggs, to make them fluffy, and all of what she knew about cooking, she learned from him.

Every night that she cooked dinner for Jon, was that his voice she heard in her head?

The Comedian's

Laurie hated to admit it, but Liv wasn't the only one to kind of have a crush on Paulie's Uncle Eddie.

Although she didn't really notice him until she was 15 or 16.

He did a lot for his costume, and it did a lot for him, or so she thought, before she found out the truth.

He wasn't a total degenerate; the idea of screwing his longtime mistress' daughter horrified him. The night of the Crimebusters meeting he seemed just as upset as her mother was when he realised she was flirting with him.

You were flirting with him, Laurie.

What does that make you?

And then, her mother told her about the Trophy Room.

And then Jon's stories about Vietnam.

And whispers about World War II and JFK and secret military missions and S.H.I.E.L.D deep cover black ops, and then he became a monster, a fiend, an animal.

But, they were all the same man.

To this day she knew that her mother saw him, sometimes, and she often heard her talking on the phone to the man, chattering away as if they were the very best of old friends.

And then, there was Liv.

They knew each other since they were in their strollers, and trained together, for their superhero futures, and Laurie became one of Liv's few friends.

She had been a happy, well-adjusted, cheerful little girl, with a crazy sense of humour and a razor- sharp mind.

Liv was always a good friend.

She was always the crazy one, too.

Liv already knew how to drive when she was eleven, and she taught Laurie, and they snuck her first drink at thirteen, as Liv explained to her exactly what it was like to lose your virginity.

Didn't hurt, not really, and after you did it, all you could think about was the next time you could do it, again.

They both entered the superhero game at 16, but Laurie met Jon, then, and Liv was still in college, and she had stayed wild, retaining her interests in booze, blues, cars, and men.

She was still pretty happy and cheerful much of the time, but she had her black moods and when she had them she went on the wild binges that everyone came to call her Troubles, and they seemed to get worse and worse and eat up more and more of her friend Liv, until Liv fell in with the Comedian, and after becoming his partner, she was no less wild, crazy, amoral and, when you got right down to it, fun, but she evened out, and quit having her Troubles altogether.

The Comedian.

He was a vicious rapist, but he was her mother's old friend.

He did unmentionable things when he was in World War II, and in Vietnam, but he was a beloved national hero.

And Laurie hated him, but he had saved her best friend's life, and he was her best friend's partner.

And he had driven her to school in the rain a few times, and made her breakfast and taught her how to cook.

Once a week, he took her and Paulie and Liv and Paulie's brother Pat and his little sister Bridget to the drive-in, when Bridget was old enough.

Laurie wasn't supposed to go when her mother and Eddie were on the outs, but she lied and said she was at Paulie's.

She didn't want to miss the movies just because her mother wouldn't talk to Paulie's uncle.

One Halloween, in particular, for the all-night monster movie marathon, and bought them all as much junk food and Coke as they could stomach.

They were the same man.

The same man who shot a woman pregnant with his child in cold blood for slashing his face sat behind the wheel of his metallic green Coupe De Ville and drank a six pack of beer in his work pants and his undershirt and his lumberjack flannel with his dog tags on, and a whole bunch of kids crammed into the car with him every which way, gorging themselves on candy and popcorn and Cokes and hamburgers.

That one Halloween, Paulie ate ten hot dogs and Liv snuck half a can of beer, and the theatre showed _Blood Feast_.

They had to stop on the way home a few times so Paulie could throw up.

When she turned 15 and got her learner's permit, Eddie gave her a brand new Ford Mustang.

He said he was the closest thing in the world she had to a father, and Ford had given him the car, and it was too goddamn small for him, anyway.

Laurie still had that car.

Liv did all the work on it.

And now Liv was his partner.

The Comedian's.

In her mind, Laurie had to think of him as "The Comedian", because when she started to think of him as "Eddie" she started not hating him so much, and that wasn't what she wanted, at all.

Jon and she worked together, but he had never gone so far as to say that he and Laurie were partners.

Laurie just didn't get it.

It was now 9:15, and Liv was late for work.

Liv was never late for work.

Just last week, she was sitting at her desk at lunchtime.

The door wasn't even locked.

She had one of her three pairs of flared Levis on and a Who tee shirt with grease on it, and the remains of her lunch were on the table and she was wiping her hand off on a paper towel after she zipped up her pants and put down the book with a kind of dirty picture on the back and a smile face on the front.

It was "The Comedian's Carnal Capers", again.

Laurie was horrified.

"Liv, what the hell are you doing! You still have that thing? Shouldn't all the pages be stuck together by now?"

"Prob'ly. It's corny, but it does the trick. Not as good as looking through the crack in the door while he's gettin' undressed, but, what the hell, yunno? "

Then that easy smile, and that horrible sleazy laugh.

"Jesus Christ, Liv, you work with the man, isn't that enough?"

"Yeah, but I can't get the sunnuvabitch to come across. Maybe he ain't noticed I'm not 11, anymore. Pretty soon, I'm gonna hafta resort to drastic measures."

"Like what? Crawl into bed with him and hold a gun to his head?"

"Somethin' like that."

Liv laughed, again.

"Do you know what kind of man he is? Do you care? I mean, first of all he's old enough to be your Dad, and you've known him all your life, and…you don't care, right?"

Liv had sort of smiled, and shrugged.

"It's just a fuckbook, Laurie." She said.

"Yeah. The same one you've been drooling over since about 1963! I keep telling you, Liv, you'd better get over that bastard! I mean, would you really put a gun to his head? You can't do that!"

"Sure I can, Lar. And if the SOB keeps playin' on-again, off-again with me, I just might." "And you think that'll work?"

"For Eddie's sake, it better." Liv told her, and got another can of Coke, chuckling at the thought.

How could Eddie Blake be a monster, and a hero?

Her mother's victimiser and an old friend?

How could he shoot a woman pregnant with his child at point-blank range, but yet be good for Liv, and good to her?

How could she have such a man as a partner, knowing what he'd done and who he was and still defend him?

Were they both crazy?

And now Liv was late, a half hour late?

Laurie went into the main lab, where Jon was looking at the clock.

He finally looked worried, staring at the buzzer on the wall by her name and waiting for it to light up.

"You know, last week, she threatened to put a gun to his head if he didn't come across." Laurie told him.

"What?"

"Oh, you know, Jon. What's a little rape at gunpoint between friends?"

"That's probably what he'd think of it as. Foreplay."

Jon laughed, a little, and Laurie gave him a dirty look.

They had both expected her to be mangled and beaten beyond recognition as the green buzzer lit up and Jon teleported her to the DC lab, but she wasn't.

There was not a scratch on her, she was dressed as usual, and had her lunchbox in one hand and a half-drunk bottle of orange juice in another, and a donut sticking out of her mouth.

She juggled orange juice and donut in one hand.

"Sorry I'm so late, Doc. I had a real heavy weekend, and I was out like a fuckin' light this morning. Lemme go put my shit in my office, an' I'll get my coat and get to work."

"Go ahead and finish your breakfast, Liv. I don't mind."

You did not have to be Dr. Manhattan to play connect the dots, and he did not wish to pursue the matter any further.

Laurie, on the other hand was terribly curious.

She was all over Liv at lunchtime.

"Liv, you've never been late to work even when you got stabbed the night before. Who is he, Godzilla?"

"I don't want to talk about it, Lar."

That wasn't like Liv.

Liv always wanted to talk about it.

If she had a good time with a man, she'd sit there and tell Laurie every single detail that she could possibly remember, right down to the guy's measurements and whether or not he gave good head.

There could be only one reason Liv didn't want to talk about who it was who lit her up like a Christmas tree to the extent that she was still glowing.

"Oh Liv! You didn't!"

Liv shrugged, and a slow smile spread over her face.

"Yeah, I did." She said.

"With him? That is so fucking disgusting! I remember when I caught you reading that sleazy fuckbook you tried to play it off like it was just one of your usual sleazy fuckbooks, but you always liked him! Just like some dumb groupie, slobbering all over a poster of a big, bad man with big, bad guns, wearing lots of big, bad, black leather. You just couldn't wait to get your legs around that piece of shit asshole, could you? What the fuck is the matter with you?"

Liv laughed.

"I'm sorry, Lar. I'm a mean, mean woman, and I'm bad like Jesse James. I'm badder and meaner than most cats who I ever met, than most cats who ever breathed. I like a man who's as bad as me. A big, mean, lowdown bad motherfucker. And they don't come bigger, meaner, badder or more lowdown than Eddie Blake. I can't help myself. It was a match made in Hell." She said, laughing

"Liv, I'm serious! You could get hurt!"

"Whaddya mean, hurt? Look, Eddie's a violent guy, but not in the sack, okay? He's not some kinda sicko. Look, I'm serious too, Lar. I had a fuckin' itch since I was 13 years old that nobody and nothing could give me a minute's relief from, the kinda goddamn itch that makes you fucking raw. And I got that goddamn itch scratched so good that I don't hardly know it's there, anymore. Nobody ever asked me to be their old lady before, an' I never wanted nobody to be my old man. But things are different, with me an' Eddie. I don't know how, and I don't know why, and I don't care, either. Just let me enjoy it, okay?" Liv asked.

"You're starting to sound like my mother! He's still seeing my mother! Doesn't that bother you?"

"No. I'm still gonna see Logan. And Joe Mac. And when Eddie sneaks off to see Sally, he'll never have to know about me an' Tony."

"What the fuck is the matter with you?"

"Don't start with me, man!"

"Fuck you! Are you crazy, Liv? Don't you know what the Comedian is like?"

"Jesus, Laurie, yeah, I do! And so do you! We grew up with him, remember? You more than me! Half the time, he was there havin' coffee while you were eatin' your Frosted Flakes. And we useta go to the drive in every Thursday? Remember?"

"That was before."

"No, it was after! 1960-something was a long time after 1938. Give it a rest, will you? The man's---practically your goddamn stepfather, for Christ's sake, so quit bein' such a cunt about it!"

"Fuck you!"

Laurie stomped out of Liv's office in a rage, and into Jon's.

"What the fuck is the matter with her? Is she crazy?"

"You mean Liv?"

"Yes, Jon. I mean Liv. I already know that my mother is crazy."

"People like Liv and the Comedian are hard to figure out. You have to consider where they began. It would be easy to just dismiss both of them as a couple of psychopaths, but I don't think that's true. They both think they're psychopaths, but they aren't. They were both, however, raised by genuine psychopaths in atmospheres of complete amorality. They've both found the same way of dealing with the world, which is to face the realities of humankind and human nature at their most sordid levels, and decided that if this is what people are capable of, then everything must be a joke. It's very unlikely that two people would come to that same conclusion, from similar sets of circumstances, let alone that they would be in the same profession, and one would be in a position to mentor the other. Even less likely one would be a man, and one would be a woman. But all of those things are true, and as such, you could hardly expect anything else to happen between them than what has."

"You lost me at the end, Jon."

"Eddie Blake and Liv Napier lived most of their confused, violent, amoral lives alone in the world, never having met another living being that made any sense to them. Now they've met one another, they're alone in the world, together."

"That doesn't explain that they really seem to like each other."

"It's like I said, Laurie, neither of them is actually a psychopath. And unless you have no human feelings, no matter how brutal and hard and cynical you become, human beings do not evolve beyond their need for affection, for tenderness, both to have it and to show it."

"I know that! Liv's my friend."

"Yes, Laurie, but Eddie Blake is human, too. And he's Liv's friend. And her lover. And your mother's, too, sometimes. And Liv's right. He is the…closest thing you have to a father. You don't have to like it, and you don't have to like him, but that's the way it is."

Laurie left Jon's office and walked through the lab, back to Liv's.

"Hey, Liv? Sorry I said 'fuck you'. Alright?"

"What? Shit, I'm not mad over that. It's cool. Ya wanna eat lunch with me?"

"Sure."

"So, how the fuck did this happen?"

"Well, it started before I went to rehab. When Eddie was guardin' me on the night shift. I got him in a…compromising position. Then, when I went to rehab, and all that shit with Tony went down, Eddie got pissed at me. Well, pissed ain't the word for it. He went fuckin' nuts."

Laurie rolled her eyes.

"Typical. Men his age are like that. They don't lay out any rules for you, and then expect you to just figure out what they expect. So, did you do it?"

"What?"

"Put a gun to his head?"

"Oh yeah. Shit got real hairy, Friday night. I mean, by this time, I was as pissed at him as he was at me. We were down at the docks, an' Eddie picked this fight with me. I mean, those were fightin' words if I ever heard 'em. So, I called him a cunt, an' spit in his face, an' smashed him one, in the nose."

Laurie's jaw dropped.

"And you're still alive?"

"Well, he hit me back. Hard. But I turned the bionic side of my face. It surprised the shit out of him I didn't go down. Me too. Bionic side or no, I was too fuckin' mad. So, I took the opportunity to spit blood in his eye. He couldn't see to hit me, so he kicks me, which knocks me over. But I grabbed hold of his leg, which knocked him down."

"When did ya pull the gun on him?"

"Well, Eddie fell first. He hit the pavement, an' I fell on top of him. At first, I was just thinkin' I hadda draw before he did. I put my legs around his hips, pulled the gun, and stuck it right between his eyes. Then, we both realised I was sittin' right on his cock."

Laurie bit her lip to keep from laughing.

"I can't believe it! Wait until I tell Mom, You actually fucking put a gun to his head, just like you said you would!"

"I sure did! An' I told him I didn't wanna fight him, an' I figured, this is nuts. Last thing I wanna do is kill this cat. So, I put the gun away, an' I laid this serious fuckin' kiss on him."

"That's crazy!"

"Tell me about it."

"What did he do?"

"He finally got the fuckin' picture. Yanked my cowl off an' kissed me back, and started callin' me baby. The little light went off in his head that I kinda fuckin' liked him. Jeeziz, some people, a fuckin' house has gotta fall on 'em."

Laurie shook her head.

"Forties and fifties cats. You hafta draw them a fuckin' picture."

"Well, long story short, we went back to his place."

"That's it! I don't want to hear anymore!"

"I wasn't gonna tellya. I mean Eddie's your…Ma's boyfriend. It'd be fuckin' sick."

"Are you actually going to eat that sandwich? The bread is green."

"It is? Yeah, it is. I gotta get Alfred to start packin' my lunch for me, again. He's a helluva lot better at it than I am. I think this cheese is bad, too. Hell with it. Y'wanna go out?"

"Sounds good."

Laurie went to the door and shouted.

"Jon, do you want to go out for lunch?"

Silence.

"Yes. Let me find my briefs."

"Does he even own pants, anymore?" Liv asked.

"He hardly ever wears them. But that's alright."

"Less work for you?" Liv joked.

"Less work for me." Laurie agreed, laughing in spite of herself.


	6. My Girl

**Chapter Five : My Girl**

**Prelude: New Jersey, 1962**

**I: Eddie**

Pat andLaurie and Paulie were asleep in the back, after three movies and enough burgers, fries, popcorn and Coke to sink a battleship, they were done.

Not Liv.

The Bat probably had to hit that kid with a hammer to get her to go to sleep.

She was sitting up in front with him as they drove home, looking out the window.

Paulie always stuck her in the front with him.

She had the red hair and green eyes Jack Napier used to have, and the same wide, red grin, but, it was on Merrie Damiano's lips.

The kid looked so much like her.

No, Merrie Napier.

Especially when she wasn't swearing and cracking wise, she looked like her mother.

Pretty, gentle, spunky, saintly, dead Merrie Napier, his sister's best friend.

He could go there, they could all go there, to the Damiano apartment, for a little respite from Mick the Merciless' reign of terror, to observe something like regular family life with the Sicilian shoemaker and his wife, the Irish witch.

And it was the neighbourhood witch, Merrie's mother, Magdelene Malloy Damiano who ministered to the wounds and sprains and breaks and bruises they got from their father's beatings, and the illnesses they suffered because of his neglect.

And Merrie took over for her mother.

She was like his own personal Angel of Mercy.

Eddie and Bruce and Jack, they had avenged Merrie's horrible death.

That didn't do much for her little girl.

The kid wasn't just Jack's little girl, she was Merrie's, too.

Eddie was fiddling with the radio, trying not to think about the past.

Found a good song.

_You Can't Catch Me_

Good old Chuck Berry.

Liv started to sing along.

"That's right. Ya like rock and roll, kid?" Eddie asked.

"Yeah. And the blues. None of that doo-wop and love songs bullshit for me, Mr. Blake. That's for dumb little girls."

"Oh yeah, you're 13, you're all grown up."

"More'n you know I am! I never liked corny shit like that. Never. An' I am all grown up."

Eddie took the kid seriously.

He was all grown up by the time he was about her age.

"Yeah, I'll bet you are, kid."

"You gotta girl, Mr. Blake? Some broad you go around with, or anything?"

Eddie laughed.

"I know a lot of broads, kid. That's all."

"Yeah. I know what you mean. I don't like strings, myself. Can I smoke?"

"Sure. Go ahead. I ain't your father."

"Well, Pop doesn't like me smokin'. Neither does Daddy. But it's, it's a whaddyacallit. A nervous habit. I like smokin'."

"You been doin' it since you was nine. You and Laurie."

"Well, all she does is smoke. Me, I do whatever I can get away with. I'm gonna be a mask. Gotta be tough. Right, Mr. Blake?"

"Sure, kid."

Liv was quiet for awhile, and they listened to the radio.

Eddie thought about what she said.

Was she trying to tell him she was running around with men? Grown men?

"Whaddya mean, ya don't like strings? What strings? You're 13. What kinda strings they got in junior high? A pin? A sweater?" Eddie finally said.

"Awww, I don't run around with boys. Junior high kids, high school boys, no thanks."

Yeah, she was.

"What, you're runnin' with grown fuckin' men? At your age? Jesus, kid!"

"So?"

"So, you could get into a lot of fuckin' trouble!"

"Hey, Mr. Blake, I know all about the facts of life."

"A kid like you could get worse things than knocked up."

Liv just laughed.

"Somebody gets wise with me, I'll bust him up. If he's too big, I'll just kill the sunnuvabitch."

Eddie got the idea, then, that the kid was just bragging.

Trying to impress him.

"What did I tell you when you was 11 about killin' people?" he joked.

"Aww, geez, Mr. Blake, nobody lets me have any fuckin' fun! Not even you."

Kid had a sick sense of humor.

A couple minutes later, he thought he felt something brush against his leg, but he figured it must have been his imagination, until his imagination was brushing against the crotch of his pants, feeling along his cock, in a very grown-up way you wouldn't expect from a kid that young.

Eddie looked at the kid in disbelief.

She was still eating her popcorn and watching the movie.

He grabbed her little hand by the wrist, picked it up, and moved it away.

"You gotta be outa your mind, kid! You're just a goddamn baby! That's the last time youse sits in the front with me until you're 18, kid." He told her.

"17 in New York State, Mr. Blake." She replied.

Then, she started to laugh.

For better or worse, she was Crazy Jack's little girl, laughing his crazy laugh with the same loony glee.

Considering she was going to be a mask, it was probably for better.

And as for Eddie, he couldn't help but laugh with her.

She was one crazy kid.

Still, just to be sure, he decided, as long as he was keeping an eye on his kid, it wouldn't hurt to keep an eye on Jack and Merrie's kid, as well.

He owed Merrie that.

**Trivelino Mac's, Brooklyn, New York , 1971**

**I: Mac**

It was around midnight when Liv came in with Eddie Blake.

She parked herself on her usual barstool, and he sat down beside her, and they both ordered a Guinness.

Eddie asked Liv what drink of the day that was before Mac could.

"It's only the third, Eddie."

"Drink it slow. You ain't goin' to five, today." He told her.

"Yassuh, massa." Liv answered, chuckling.

She lit up a cigarette, and started fishing through her pockets.

"You gotta quarter? For the jukebox?"

Eddie gave her a quarter, and Liv picked her four songs.

Mac looked to his other customers.

During Liv's third song, "Brown Sugar", she got up off her barstool and started dancing around.

Liv did a lot of that, drunk or sober.

Seeing her dance to the jukebox was about as common as seeing her win at darts, shoot a good game of pool, get into a heated conversation about just about anything with somebody, or call an unfortunate soul outside.

Mac got into a conversation with Eddie, it was nothing unusual, just another weeknight.

One of the customers at one of the tables, a younger guy, he looked like during working hours he was a hardhat, got up and started dancing with Liv.

Eddie turned around, puffing on his cigar, gave the guy the old once-over, and laughed.

He was just asking Mac for another Guinness when they both heard Liv yell:

"Hey, chief, don't get fuckin' handsy, now!"

From the way Eddie sprang off of that barstool and made his way across the room, blowing smoke from his cigar like the steam from a freight train, you would have thought that the guy was trying to give it to Liv on the pool table, with a knife to her throat, and she was screaming bloody murder.

He stepped between Liv and the hardhat in question, and lifted him high into the air, with one hand.

By his throat.

At least, Mac was thinking, he didn't look like he was squeezing.

"You gotta problem, asshole? Din'cha see her come in with me?"

"Didn't! Sorry!" the hardhat gasped.

"Not yet, you ain't, fucko! I oughta break your fuckin' face, putting ya hands on my girl!"

"Didn't know! Swear!"

"Yeah, well, ya do now!"

Eddie dropped the guy more than put him down.

"Blow. Before I change my mind about beatin' the shit outa youse." He said.

The hardhat and his friends left in a hurry.

Eddie walked over to the cue rack, and got two pool cues.

He handed one to Liv.

"Fuckin' assholes! Ya wanna shoot some pool, kid?"

"Yeah. Why not? Loser pays for the drinks."

All the regulars were looking at Eddie Blake like he'd grown a new head.

Did he really just say that Napalm was his girl?

Yes, he did.

Mac just drew them both another pint.

That just might keep her out of trouble.

**The Oval Office, Washington, DC, 1971**

**II: Tricky Dick**

The Comedian was in Washington on Monday, meeting with President Nixon.

The business part of the meeting concluded, Nixon figured he'd pull the old boy's chain a little, get him going.

"Well, I was thinking about giving you the week off, Eddie. I mean, you're not Superman, after all." he joked.

"Christ, Dick, do you know everything that everybody does?"

"No. Not everyone. I just set someone to check on you that time when you didn't answer your phone. I thought you might have been in danger. I didn't realise how much. I should have sent in the Marines."

"Hey, I can handle it. Trust me, I don't need no reinforcements. I'm a better man at 47 than most of these tea-smokin' hophead pussies are at 27. But…"

"But?"

"But I'm glad the kid had to go to work today. Holy shit! Lemme sit down before I fall down!"

"That bad, huh?"

"If the kid don't kill me one way, she'll do it the other."

"But what a way to go, huh? So tell me, old friend. Is this the real thing?"

"You still tryin' ta get me ta settle down, Dick?"

"Well, among other things, it'd be a helluva lot better for your image."

The Comedian helped himself to one of Tricky Dick's cigars

"Yeah, well, just between you and me and the wall, all that bullshit youse hears about the kid, it's just that. Bullshit. She's a good kid. Really. Real smart. Pretty. Nice girl. She just went a little wild, that's all. She can't help it. It's just the way she is, ya know. Got in too deep, into the work, with no backup. Met up with the wrong kinda men who treated her like shit. Then, she got hurt bad a few times, started drinkin' ta kill the pain. You get a young girl, too smart for her own good, with a bad temper and a serious booze habit, you get trouble. She just needed somebody to straighten her ass out, that's all. A man ta look after her."

"That's what I thought. Gordon, he always told me, that Harlequin, she's a menace, and I told him, she's good at her job. Nicky trusts her, and if Nicky trust her, she's alright by me. She'll grow out of it."

"Yeah, well, you better tell that psycho bastard Liddy that he better keep his fuckin' meathooks off my girl, or I'll breach his fuckin' national security for him!" Eddie suddenly snarled.

The President was a little taken aback.

It sure sounded like the real thing to him.

That was good for Eddie; it wasn't right for a man his age to be all on his own.

"Now, Eddie, you know that anyone who's alright by you is alright by me. I wouldn't worry about it, if I were you. Still, if I had myself a young lady, I wouldn't want anyone, you know, interfering with her. Still, it must be something. Being a superhero. Fast cars. Adoring young ladies. Almost like being a Hollywood celebrity. You can stop me and tell me it's not all that its cracked up to be any time you want."

The poor, sad, old bastard wanted to hear some big story, but this one Eddie was keeping to himself.

"Yeah, but Dick, I'd hate to lie to you like that."

Watching Richard Nixon laugh was an unsettling experience that made Eddie Blake glad that he was a lifelong Democrat.

**III: Eddie **

He was driving back to New York and he stopped at the Doc's DC lab for the kid.

His kid was waiting for him.

Somewhere along the line, Laurie had learned to hate him, and unlike most of the people who hated him, he'd never really given her a reason too.

When she was little, she regarded him with familiar indifference.

He was Paulie's uncle, he was her mother's sometime boyfriend that she occasionally saw at breakfast, he taught her how to cook.

Somebody to give her a ride to school if it happened to be raining or snowing that day.

The guy who paid her way to the drive-in with her friends every week.

Paulie's uncle, who used to take her places when she was little because her stepfather was a lousy father.

He was just Eddie, you know, Eddie.

Then, she found out about the Trophy Room.

She already knew he was the Comedian, she knew it all, and that night at the Crimebusters meeting she didn't loathe him yet; she was talking to him just like she did, when she was a little girl, eating her Frosted Flakes.

Hell, the last time he'd seen her before that was at Sal's place one night about a month before; he sat there and talked to her for a half hour about being a mask.

But after she found out about the Trophy Room, all the sudden he was a stranger, he was Satan.

Sal had to tell her; she would read Mason's book, eventually.

That fucker.

He'd taken what little Eddie had of his daughter's life away from him.

But, Laurie, she looked a hell of a lot like him when she was angry.

"You and me, we have to talk." Laurie insisted.

"What? I can't believe it, you wanna talk to me? Okay. I'm listenin'."

"You had better be! I've known Liv since we were in our strollers. You know that. She's my friend, maybe my best friend. You had goddamn well better not do anything to break her heart. Or I swear to God, I'll come for you, and I'll fucking tear yours out of your chest and show it to you while it's still fucking beating, just like Liv did to Victor Creed. You get me?"

"Yeah. Chip off the old block, ain't you, kid?"

"I don't know what women see in you, but I don't see it. At all."

"You ain't supposed to. I'm practically your goddamn stepfather. And you don't have to worry about me. If anybody tried to hurt Liv, I'd do to them what she did to Victor Creed."

Laurie looked at him, curiously.

Because she believed him.

The old bastard, she couldn't believe it.

"You are some kinda piecea work, Eddie. You know that, right?"

Eddie smirked at her.

"Usin' my own expressions against me, huh? Face it, kid. I taught youse ta cook, I taought youse ta drive, and ya didn't quit goin' to the drive in with me until you was 16. You wanna hate me? Go look in the mirror an' hate yourself, too." He said.

"Now you sound like Jon. He says I should bury the hatchet, and not in your head."

"What the fuck does he know about it?"

"That's what I say. Look, I mean it. I can trust you with Liv, right?"

"You gotta ask me that question, after all these years?"

"She finally wore you down, huh? She used to say that. One of these days, that big, bad sunnuvabitch is gonna look at me, and realise I'm not a little girl, anymore."

"Yeah. Somethin' like that. Is she around?"

"They're working. Her and Jon. They've been working for almost 14 hours, straight. You got time?"

"New York ain't goin' anyplace. How 'bout switchin' the TV on?"

"Good idea."

"Mother, what do you mean, yeah, no kidding? Aren't you worried about Liv?"

"I was worried about Eddie. She threatened to rape him at gunpoint and blow his head off if he couldn't get it up for her. He told me she did it. She put a gun to his head and snarled at him that he had better not say no to her. He talked her out of it. Explained to her he wasn't saying no as much as he was saying, not right now in this alley. Then he said it was his fault, he was blowing hot and cold on her…he got what he deserved! Laurie, I laughed until I thought I'd piss myself! What goes around, comes around, it sure does."

Then Sally laughed.

"How is that funny, Mom?"

"Honey, Eddie's not the Boston Strangler. He's had a lot of girlfriends. And he's always been partial to tough, dirty-minded redheads who get dressed up and go out and bust bad guys up. I'm not surprised. And I think him and Liv will be good for each other."

"But Mom…"

"Laurie, honey, I like Liv. In some ways she's a sweet, nice, wonderful girl. But in some ways she's not. She can be mean, and wild, and violent to the point where she doesn't care who gets hurt, even if its her. She needs a man like Eddie, somebody a little older, a little wiser, to teach her some things. And students sleeping with their teachers is the oldest story in the world. And Eddie, he's been alone for a long time, running around with groupies and floozies. It's good for him to have a steady girl. I could never do it. It's not easy for people like Eddie and your friend Liv to be happy. Leave them alone, let them have a little bit of happiness. So, then what happened?"

"We sat there and watched the TV for about three hours, and then I stormed down to the lab. Jon started giving me all this, only a few hours more bullshit, and I got really mad at him. I was yelling and screaming, and Liv just laughed at me. Goddamn Eddie had to come down and drag me away. I was really pissed off. Jon's always doing shit like that. He doesn't have to eat or sleep, but Liv does. Even when she's not there, he's always forgetting about me, living in real time. And when I say drag, I mean drag. He carried me right out of the lab."

"Eddie?"

"Yeah. It's a good thing, too, because I was smashing shit, and busting the place up. When we got out onto the pavement, I took a swing at him, and he caught my hand, and laughed at me."

"And?"

"Never mind."

"What do you mean, never mind?"

"Mom, that is so gross! The lousy son of a bitch is practically my father. We went to some movie, and then to this diner, and when we got back, Jon was waiting with Liv. She was asleep. Eddie put her in the car and drove off, and Jon zapped us back to New York, and I read him the riot act and gave him the cold shoulder for a couple of days."

"Good. You shouldn't put up with that shit. I wouldn't."

"I know."

**II: Eddie**

Just to make things crystal fucking clear, Eddie knew he didn't have to go to that dump where they usually held the Watchmen meetings for this bullshit.

Eddie was used to bullshit, but the bullshit he got out of some of his fellow masks when they found out his apprentice was also his girl, Jesus, you would have thought he tied her to a chair and beat her with a chain.

All this shit about violating ethics and codes of honor and a lot of other laughable shit.

She's half your age, you're supposed to be her mentor, she's disturbed, you're a pig, you're immoral, you're an asshole.

Morons.

With the exception of Muck and Fuck, that is Kent and Grayson, Eddie didn't believe for a minute that if any of his loudmouth detractors them found themselves in the position of having a good-looking young girl with big tits who liked fucking the way most broads liked chocolate and diamonds lying around in their beds, ripping their clothes to shreds and panting after their cocks that they would have done anything different.

And none of them thought that either he or the kid had any human feelings, it was impossible for them to believe that they actually gave a shit about each other.

None of them seemed to really give a shit about her, the hypocritical bastards.

They all knew what her problem was, the fucking bunch of faggots. They just didn't want to say it. They knew they were the ones who drove her to drink and despair, with all their fancy bullshit talk about ethics and honour and morals in a crazy piece of shit fucked up world where none of that existed when all the kid needed was a man, a real fucking man to scratch her bone deep itch that was driving her out of her mind, and if she ever wanted the itch to go away somebody had to tell her it was okay not to be a chump and a sucker and a fucking Pollyanna asshole and see the world the way it really was.

Goddamn bunch of pussies. Where the fuck were they with their ten dollar words and their fucking shrink doubletalk when the kid was going down the toilet and all they did was shake their heads?

Well, they gave that girl to him, and now she was his, his girl, and if they wanted her back then they'd have to take her over his dead body.

Fat fucking chance on that one.

It had been over thirty years since the last time he met a woman he really gave a damn about, and since the late forties before he met a broad he could stand for more than an hour, and just because a few people like Hollis Mason, who probably got his last hard-on during the first Eisenhower administration, didn't approve, he wasn't giving her up.

But, it pissed him off, not only that Mason and friends could be such a bunch of fucking hypocrites, but that they thought they could tell him what to do, at all.

When he showed up, the kid was already there, in costume, with a bemused smirk on her face.

She thought it was all incredibly funny.

"Good. Now we can begin." Supes announced.

"I wanna point out to this tribunal, that the Comedian is the innocent party, here. I practically raped the man at gunpoint. I held a gun to his head and told him if he didn't come across, I'd blow his brains out." Liv cracked.

"That's right. I'm the victim here. She's takin' advantage of me. The girl won't leave me alone. Look how pale I am." He protested.

Eddie was glad he and Liv weren't taking it seriously, because Supes, Robin, Hollis Mason and, big surprise, Ozymandias were.

Supes was the Boy Scout to end all Boy Scouts, and the kid's brother, well, he had little sisters, he could understand why the kid's big brother, Robin, was there, and Mason, well, Mason hated his guts because Eddie was the one Sal wanted, no matter what other excuses he made.

But Ozzy?

Ozzy just wanted to fuck with him, any way he could.

Probably because he knew fucking with the Comedian was the closest he was ever going to get to fucking him.

When Eddie had beat the shit out of him, years earlier, he got that faggoty vibe from him as the little Nazi fuck lay there in a pool of his own blood. Like he would have pretended getting fucked in his ass was just part of the beating, and maybe call back next Saturday for a little less beating and a little more fucking.

Yeah, well, he picked the wrong Minuteman for that.

All that shit was his fellow Nazi Rolf Mueller's territory.

Still, Pop would have done it.

Good old Pop, smokin' and toasting in hell, he'd of fucked anything he could get to hold still long enough to stick his dick in it.

Of course, Mick the Merciless would have killed Ozzy, afterwards.

Wouldn't want it to get around that he was some kind of faggot.

Eddie laughed to himself.

"This is not funny." Superman admonished him.

"That's right, Kent, it ain't. I wanna know what fuckin' right you have to tell me an' Liv what ta do? I mean it's still a free country, ain't it?" Eddie demanded.

"Eddie's got a point, Clark. I'm a grown woman, and he's a grown man. We're not breakin' any laws, an' neither the JLA or the Watchmen have any non-fraternization regulations. And neither, for that matter, do the Avengers, an' they happen to be one man short on their team, right now. Tony Stark doesn't just invite me over to play chess." Liv added.

"Liv, don't be hasty. We were just concerned that there might be some, erm, coercion or unfairness involved." Superman replied.

"He's got a reputation for that." Mason interjected.

"Reputation? What fuckin' reputation? You got me confused with my father, Mason. Youse does that a lot." Eddie interrupted.

"Liv, the man's old enough to be your father!" Robin spluttered.

"So are most of the other men she's slept with. And the Comedian is probably the least degenerate of all of them. Wolverine is practically an animal. And God only knows about the rest of them." Ozymandias commented.

Robin jumped to his feet, and so did the Comedian.

"Adrian, you shut your mouth about my little sister or I will shut it for you!"

"I'm with you, Grayson! Look, I'm bein' straight in this thing with your sister. I wouldn't do nothin' ta hurt her. I knew her mother, and her father, even your stepfather, we work together. And I known Liv all my life. She's my apprentice, an' she's my girl. Now, let's show this Nazi faggot sunnuvabitch he can't talk about our Liv like that." He said.

Robin thought about it for a minute.

He and Liv shared the same bedroom since they Dick was 11, and when they were 16 Bruce renovated the servants quarters to be their apartment, and they had rooms across a hall.

They played with the same kids, went to the same schools, trained with the same mask.

Liv was his sister in everything but blood.

"You're on!" he agreed.

Superman had to stand between them and Ozymandias.

"Fellas, please! We didn't come here for a brawl!"

"Well you're gonna get one, Clark! You lousy jerk! You always have something to say about Bruce and about my sister! I'll knock that tiara right off your head, Princess!" Robin yelled.

"What didja think you was gonna get, Clark?" Liv interjected.

"Liv, I know you think you know Eddie. That you've known him all your life. That you can handle him. So did Sally. And look what happened to her." Hollis Mason entreated her

"Hollis, I wasn't kidding about the gun to the head. But, ya know, it wasn't rape. He wanted it, the dirty sunnuvabitch."

Eddie had to laugh at the look on Mason's face.

He had just realised the story was true

"Eddie?" he asked.

The poor bastard was knocked for a loop.

"She did it, Hollis. That's how I knew she wasn't foolin', an' it was me she wanted. Don't look at me like that. You wasn't really gonna shoot me, were ya, kid?"

"Oh, hell no, Eddie. Well, maybe just a flesh wound."

"It's just that kind of depravity that doesn't have a place amongst masked superheroes." Ozymandias sniffed.

Eddie laughed.

"Shit, Ozzy, if you think that's depraved, I'm glad youse missed the Minutemen. I never opened a closed door in that circus. Ya know what I, mean, Mason?"

Hollis blushed, and coughed.

"Yes."

That was all he said.

"I mean, whatta costume freak show! Not that we didn't do our jobs, but there was a whole lotta fuckin' goin on, and it was some pretty kinky shit. Especially for the thirties, forties and fifties. Like there was this one time, right after the war, they had this New Year's party, an' I crashed it. I was pretty drunk, and so was Ursula, and that nurse broad with the big ass, what was her name? Tess. Well, they was pretty drunk, too, an' I guess they just got in the mood for a little somethin' different, because we went down in the basement, where that bedroom was, an'…"

"Eddie, that's enough!" Hollis Mason protested.

"What? Like you never had a three…well, I guess none of youse have. Not the Boy Scouts of America."

"I have. With two guys, though." Liv commented.

"So has Adrian, I'll bet." Robin muttered, under his breath.

Eddie's jaw dropped.

"What, you?"

"Hey, I didn't say I let anybody made a punk outa me! Use your imagination, Eddie."

"I don't wanna! Jesus, kid, don't tell me these things!"

"Yeah, I see I'm gonna hafta get you and Logan drunk. Reeeeeeallly drunk." Liv snickered.

"An' you people think I'm the evil seducer? Listen to the mouth on this kid, willya? Bullshit. An' you can't get me an' Jimmy drunk enough for any shit like that. Too close to fag shit, doll." Eddie addressed his detractors.

Superman interrupted, his face beet red.

"That's enough of that kind of talk! Jeez, my ears are burning! Trivelino, you had better slow your Mustang down. No offence to you, Comedian, but I have to ask these questions. Liv, I wanted to give you this forum, to find out if this is what you want. We're not going to toss you out if you quit working with the Comedian. No one will think any less of you. He's not your last chance to be a mask. You've been with the JLA since you were 16, and no one, least of all me, wants to throw you out on your ear. If there is something funny going on, you can tell me, here and now, and I will take care of it. Personally."

Superman shot Ozymandias a "shut it or I will shut it for you" look.

"Nothin' like that, Clark. If anybody was to say to me, ya better come across or you ain't workin with me, they'd be pushin' up daisies. I just really dig Eddie, that's all. He's my old man, yunno? Ozzy's got a point. I went around with a whole buncha guys. None of them ever wanted to be my old man before. An' I didn't give a shit. But, now I do." Liv replied.

"Well, I guess that's…alright, then." Superman grudgingly agreed.

He wasn't sure what else to say, or do.

Eddie figured he wanted to get this meeting wrapped up, before he heard anything else he didn't want to know about, in his red, white and blue virgin ears.

Clark Kent, he was probably a virgin until he was married.

But, even after Supes gave up and Robin settled down and everybody who had their two cents to put in did so, Hollis fucking Mason wouldn't let it go.

"Wait a second! You know something, Comedian? I thought you hit your lowest moment when you tried to rape Sally in our trophy room! But you topped yourself when you not only fathered a child by her, but you somehow convinced her to become your off-again, on-again girlfriend. But this, this is the lowest, the absolute nadir!"

"Ya hear that, kid? I've reached a new low. That's fuckin' progress."

"This is no joke, Blake! How could you! You've known Liv since she was a little girl!"

"And? Jesus, Mason, when she was a little girl, I wasn't lookin' at her, an' thinkin', Oh boy! I didn't even notice the kid had it bad for me until she was 16 or 17, an' even then, I didn't do nothin' about it. What about the Doc? He moved in on my little girl when she was only 16! If I coulda, I woulda killed him! Didja call him up, an' read him the riot act? At least Liv's a grown fuckin' woman!"

"But she's your apprentice! She looks up to you! She trusts you! She depends on you! How could you betray her like this? Use her like she's another one of your cheap floozies…"

"Christ, Hollis, nobody says "floozie" anymore." The Comedian chuckled.

"…use her like all of those anonymous dirty old men and callous young clods, who took advantage of her when she was drunk, the ones she used to wear the evidence of on her coveralls…"

Before he started that shit, Hollis' harangue struck Eddie as funny, but when he heard himself being compared the very assholes he wanted to brutally murder with his bare hands, he got mad.

Real fucking mad.

"Hey! HEY! You watch that fuckin' shit, Mason! I ain't like those fuckin' sonsabitches! I wish the kid would point one out to me, if she saw him, I'd strangle the sunnuvabitch! Slow! You never did shit to help her! None of you fuckers did! But now, you wanna come back and make me the bad guy? Youse gave her ta me, ya threw her at me, like she was a piecea trash. Ya wanna know who used Liv? I'll fuckin' tellya, ya cocksucker! Alla you masks who let a little girl do your dirty work for ya! Every fuckin' one who let that kid go out there and get beat and shot and cut and stabbed an stomped, every night, over an' over, until it was all she could do ta drink an' screw away the pain enough to crawl outa bed the next day! Dontcha try ta go makin' me the bad guy! I'm takin' care of my girl, goddamnit! An' I always will! Youse can take that to the fuckin' bank!" Eddie screamed.

He was on his feet, standing in front of Liv like they were on the tracks and the train was coming.

Inflated by his anger, and his costume, puffing away at his cigar, he looked like he might even be able to stop it.

Everybody was quiet.

"Well, I'm convinced." Robin whispered to Superman.

"I had no idea he had it in him." Clark confessed.

Neither did Hollis Mason.

"Eddie...I...I had no idea." Hollis Mason finally said.

"Yeah, well, ya do now!"

"Jesus, Eddie, settle down, willya?"

"Stay outa this, kid."

"Okay, fine. Do your _Wild Kingdom_ thing. I'll just sit here an' smoke."

"I never thought she was garbage, Eddie. And I never thought she should do the work she did. But, like you said, most masks, they didn't seem to care. I cared. I watched her grow up."

"So did I!"  
"I know that. Well, I had my say. And I'm glad I was wrong about you. For once."

"Mason, you been wrong about me all along. Alla youse. So, if you're all finished now, me an' my apprentice got woik to do."

"Adrian didn't have his say." Liv reported, mischievously.

"I've said all I need to say about both of you." Ozymandias pronounced.

"See? Ozzy don't need to have his say. No matter what he says, everybody in this room is gonna know that what he means is, Eddie, I'm smarter than Liv, I'm prettier than Liv, and I'm a real blonde. How come you want her and not me?"

Robin swallowed a laugh.

"I have just about had it with your disgusting insinuations that I am a homosexual!" Adrian cried.

"Hey, Ozzy, ya think I care? I got nothing against queers. Or lezzies. As long as a guy ain't tryin' to fuck me in my ass, what do I care what he does and who he does it to? Captain Metropolis, he was a queer. I never cared. So was that fuck Hooded Justice. What I got against him is he beat the shit outa me, not that he was a queer. An' the Silhouette, she was a lezzie. It never bothered me. Ask Mason. Mason, did I ever give a shit about that?"

"It didn't seem to bother you."

"Right. And it's 1971, now, Ozz-Man. Pink is beautiful. Why dontcha waltz on outa the closet? You can be the worlds first fag superhero. The queers don't have their own superhero, hell, they'll love you. You'll get more ass than a toilet seat at the Garden. Just don't look at me, huh? I only like broads."

"Blake, you are a disgusting, crude, insufferable degenerate! And a brute! And you, Trivelino, if, despite your intelligence, you persist in associating with animals, and behaving like one, then you'll get what you deserve!"

He took his leave.

Awkward silence followed.

"See what I mean?" the Comedian asked.

"I think he's gay, too." Robin finally said.

"That's not important. Well, now that all that is settled, I think we can all go home. From now on, Robin, remind me not to stick my nose inside other people's bedrooms." Superman announced.

"Too disturbing?" Robin asked.

"Yes. And too much information." Superman answered.

Eddie thought that was the end of the bullshit, but he had one more would-be do gooder to contend with.

The Boy Scout, he was pretty quiet about the whole thing, because he was a pussy, at least Mason wasn't a pussy, but Eddie could tell he was real disapproving about it, too.

He was another one.

The Inkblot, he made it clear he wasn't interested in broads.

He wasn't a nancy boy or a baby raper, or the kind of guy who fucked stray dogs, he just wasn't interested, at all.

Yeah, that was pretty fucking weird, but at least he was honest about it.

But the Boy Scout, he was plenty interested in broads, it was just that when he was out of his costume he was such a fucking poindexter that none of them ever wanted to look at him. And just because he wasn't a man unless he had his goddamn costume on, he had to stick his two cents in wherever he could.

Him and Mason, they probably just had a letch for the kid.

Now the kid, she wasn't what you called a shrinking violet; nobody ever told her broads weren't supposed to put notches on their belts. If she would have thought either of them were worth a fuck she would have given them one, and they knew it, and that right there was their fucking problem.

Well, maybe not Mason's.

He was like the Inkblot, it was like he didn't even have a cock.

But the Boy Scout, that was his problem.

He wanted to get in there, somewhere.

Eddie saw the way the fucking hypocrite looked at his daughter, and he'd caught the son of a bitch looking at his girl the same way.

But he had to work with the Boy Scout and it wasn't like Eddie never made an effort to talk to the guy, and try to get along with him, but when he and the Inkblot were on their way back to Nite Owl's hangar and Eddie told them the story of how he and Liv ended up together, at least the Inkblot saw the humour in it and managed a chuckle or two.

Of course, Hollis' Boy Scout just looked disapprovingly at his controls.

Disapproving because he never got a shot at Liv.

Here he goes.

"Good story. Very ironic." Rorschach commented.

"Well, they say what goes around, comes around. Dontcha get it, Danny Boy? I mean, here I am, walkin' around all day long with blue balls, thinking about how if I touch the kid, she'll try to kill me, and what does she do? She loses her shit and smacks me in the nose and puts a gun to my head because I ain't touched her. Women, yunno? I'll never figure 'em out."

The Boy Scout still wasn't laughing.

"Jesus, Eddie, that sounds pretty rough. I mean, maybe Liv's a little…unstable?"

"Goes without saying, Daniel. That's why the Bat apprenticed her to the Comedian. He knew what she needed was a strong man to take her in hand." Rorschach added.

"Unstable? Of course she's fuckin' unstable! Her father's the Joker and she hadda kill a guy when she was eleven years old! What, you ain't unstable? You get dressed up in an owl suit and go beat up bad guys at three in the morning! Relax, Boy Scout. Nobody got hurt, and now we got everything all figured out."

"That's not what I meant. I mean, maybe she needs some, uh, help. You know, like to go see a doctor. I mean, it's not normal for somebody to be so self-destructive. And violent. I know you're trying to help her out, and I'm glad to see she's gotten sober and come so far, and I'm not saying that I think you and Liv shouldn't be…involved, but people don't usually do things like that to people they care about. At all. In any way. Maybe Liv needs a professional, too."

"That's not a good route for masks to take." Rorschach interrupted.

"You know, Boy Scout, you oughtta pay more attention to your friend, here. He's a lot fuckin' smarter than you are! Whaddya mean, she needs a professional? You mean like her father needs a fuckin' professional?"

"No. No, Eddie, not, ah…"

"You mean like up at Arkham, with her crazy father, where she belongs?"

"I didn't say that."

"You didn't fuckin' have to! Jesus, it's always the same shit with you! Mom, Dad and Apple Pie! Easy for you to think so, you was born with a silver spoon in your mouth! And you fly around in this fuckin' hunka junk as far as you can get from the street and everybody in it. Well, me and Liv, we're soakin' in it. We're from the street, Dreiberg. There's no fucking excuse for you, chief. Bruce comes from a rich family, and he has his cars and his planes and shit, but he don't hide behind them the way you do. He's in this game because some criminal piece of shit killed his parents right in front of him when he was a little kid. What are you in it for? The kicks? Pussy? I'll bet a poindexter like you didn't get much of either before you became the Night Owl. Liv's a good kid. She doesn't need help from the likes of you. She's smarter than you are, she's got more balls than you have, and she could kick your ass any day of the week! She's my fuckin' partner, an' she's my girl, and if you ever say anything like that about the Harlequin ever again, I'll kick your ass all over this joint."

"Why do you always have to be so fucking, hostile, Blake? Why? Are you really this much of an asshole, or does it go with the costume?" the Boy Scout snapped.

That was a fairly unprecedented show of balls, on his part.

"I'll tellya what it fuckin' goes with! You tryna sneak in the fuckin' back door on my partner with your Mr. Sensitive act! I see the way you look at her. Rorschach, don't you think if Danny Boy would ever have had a shot at my girl, he woulda taken it?"

All Rorschach said was:

"Hurm."

"See? He knows! Lemme tell you somethin' about Trivelino J. Napier, Boy Scout. She don't need a social worker, she needs a man. A real man. And she's got one. You're lookin' at him. So, you can peddle that Alan Alda shit elsewhere. You get me?"

"I never made a pass at Liv! Not once!"

"Yeah. Because you never had the balls. You or your asshole buddy Mason. That prick probably hasn't had a hard-on since the first Eisenhower administration. And you don't look so good, yourself, Boy Scout. I'll bet he gets more ass than you do!"

Eddie reached over to the control panel, and hit the button that activated the fire jets, then he got out and started walking down the passage that led to the street.

"What the fuck is the matter with you?" Dan insisted, as he jumped out and ran for the fire extinguisher.

"I dunno. I'm unstable. I need help from a professional. See you tomorrow, Boy Scout. Give a hoot, don't pollute."

Sarcastic laughter echoed through the hangar, as Rorschach got out and helped the Nite Owl put out the flames.

And Eddie headed off to Grossmann's to meet his girl.

**IV: Dan**

"That would be the last of the flames, Daniel."

"Jesus Christ! How did I know that a guy like Eddie Blake could fall in love with somebody? Did you see that coming?"

"Actually, yes. Ever since I met Harlequin."

"I do not make eyes at Liv! I have never…"

"Daniel. You do. Her and Ms. Juspesczyk."

"I do?"

"Yes. Obviously. Perhaps you should stop."

"Well, I feel bad for Liv, anyway! Jesus, what if she loves him, too? What an asshole! No, I shouldn't say that. Maybe his parents beat him when he was a little kid, or something. I guess everyone deserves to be happy. Takes all sorts to make a world, right?" Dan muttered.

"They say his father died in the chair. Not true. The Comedian and his sister killed him. Twin sister, I think. Comedian was 14. Self defence. Father was Mick the Merciless. Violent man. Abusive. Torture. Beatings. Rape. The wife and the daughters. Comedian too, most likely. Horrible man. Scum. Shot a cop in the face. Career criminal. Walked out on a family of seven. Used to be 12. Killed two of his own children, let three die of neglect. The Comedian was the oldest surviving son. Man of the house at 14. Mother died when he was 16. Raised youngest four siblings on his own." Rorschach replied.

"Really? Oh my God! No wonder the man is such an animal! How did you know that?  
Rorschach shrugged.

"I hear things. I wouldn't drag love into it, Daniel. Got to stand behind you partner, that's all." Rorschach opined.

"I don't know. I mean, is it really a good idea to have a violent man from a broken family looking after a violent woman from a broken family, both of them telling each other how it's okay to be crazy and violent?" Nite Owl replied.

"Don't look at it that way. Comedian's father was worthless criminal scum. Abused his family. Abandoned them. Harlequin's father is worthless criminal scum. Went to jail, abandoned her. They didn't follow in their fathers' footsteps. They're on the side of what's right. That's all that matters." Rorschach concluded.

The Nite Owl sometimes envied Rorschach his ability to see everything without those annoying shades of grey that kept you up at night when you didn't have your costume on.

"I wish I could see the world the way you do. It would make it a hell of a lot easier to do this job."

They worked on cleaning up the mess and Dan thought about Rorschach's summary of Eddie Blake's childhood.

Tortured, starved, beaten, abused, raped?

By his own father?

Who he killed.

Raised four of his siblings?

Did the father really kill five of his own children before his eldest son killed him?

"Rorschach, do you think a man like that is still capable of love?"

"He seems to be."

"Have you ever been in love?"

"No. You, Daniel?"

"Not really. She made a pass at me once. Well, alright, it wasn't really a pass."

"Harlequin?"

"Yeah. You had already left, and I'd been feeling pretty, um, lonely, and Liv noticed. She came up to me and asked if I wanted some company for the night. And I asked her if she was just offering me a mercy, uh, well, you know. She admitted she was, but I asked her to stick around, just to keep me company. I think she was touched that I didn't want to use her and throw her away like a wadded-up Kleenex. We ended up getting drunk together, and watching the Late Movie, and the Late, Late Movie, and falling asleep on the couch."

"That was the right thing to do."

"Yeah. It was. I wonder why Adrian cares about it. About Liv getting together with the Comedian. I know he went to that meeting, but I can't figure out why. "

"Hurm."

"Hurm? You always say that. What's that supposed to mean, this time?"

Dan knew his partner well enough to have an idea when he was grinning under his mask.

It was rare, but Dan recognised the pattern; he was doing it, now.

"Perhaps jealous. Of Harlequin."

It wasn't until later on that night that Dan realised his partner was making a joke, and he laughed for a long, long time.

**IV: Eddie**

The Comedian drummed his fingers on the steering wheel of his shiny new black Cadillac, thinking that the last thing, the very last fucking thing he needed after a week of doing Tricky Dick's dirty work in some Third World toilet was this much fucking traffic on his way back from DC.

The lane he was in began to inch forward, but this asshole in front of him wasn't moving.

He laid on the horn.

Nothing.

People behind him began honking.

Swearing, Eddie rolled the window down.

"Hey, you! Asshole! Move that piecea shit or I'm gonna ram your ass!" he yelled.

The guy finally moved and everybody got to inch forward a little.

Eddie reached for the bottle of whiskey in the glove compartment.

He thought for a minute about his apprentice and what she might be doing, but that could be just about anybody, so he tried to keep his mind on the road and not kill anybody.

But if this asshole behind him honked one more time, Eddie was at least going to fuck him up.

The Comedian had a thing about airplanes; he didn't know how to fly, road vehicles were his thing.

Motorcycle, car, truck, he'd driven a tank in the Big One, but airplanes, no.

And unless he was in a military or mask-grade vehicle and the pilot was either a serviceman or somebody he knew damn well could fly a fucking aircraft, Eddie was alright with driving.

He did a lot of driving between New York and DC; he could practically do it in his sleep.

Sure, he was impatient in traffic jams, but that was just because he wasn't a patient man.

But, this time it was something different.

Something he didn't like.

He was in a hurry to get back to New York.

Get back to her.

Eddie didn't get attached to women.

He wasn't sure why.

Eddie didn't usually get attached to anybody.

Family.

Cap and Jimmy.

Sal.

He still loved her, thought it did him more harm than good.

Always had.

Always would.

And Sophie.

No point in rushing back to New York for Sal, she moved to California.

They still did their little dance around one another, there was mask traffic going from New York to California all the time.

And that crazy Jew bitch Sophie Grossmann, nee Sophie Kauffmann, he knew, come hell or high water, since 1944, there would always be Wednesdays with Sophie.

No point rushing back for her.

In-between, well, the Comedian had been the red, white and blue bad man pinup heart-throb of three generations of red-blooded American girls; he was never exactly lonely.

But now there was this thing with the kid.

What the fuck was he doing?

Why the fuck was he in such a hurry to get back to her?

Sure, she was his apprentice. His responsibility. He was in charge of her, of looking after her, and he'd done a good job of it, hadn't he?

But she was his girl, too.

Eddie, you ain't had a steady girl since Sophie got married in 1948.

Why now, and why the kid?

A whole lot of reasons that made sitting in traffic less boring came into his mind.

Kid was quite a firecracker.

She loved to fuck and she made no bones about it, and better yet, she loved to fuck him.

Just thinking about the way she'd coo his name when she started getting really hot, it made him take another drink.

But, even aside from that, the kid reminded him a whole hell of a lot of a mean little bastard, full of piss, wind and excitement that he used to know, who really didn't know shit about being a mask, but had enough balls, brutality and street smarts to fly by the seat of his pants and get the job done until he figured it out.

Except the kid's figuring it out was obscured by the Troubles, a bullshit euphemism for the kid, already a raging drunk's intermittent weeklong stew-bum skirting alcohol poisoning benders that usually ended in some truly appalling ultraviolence on some truly appalling badguys, and left the kid shot, wrecked, stabbed, broken, battered or otherwise close to death.

He stopped that shit.

Other than that she was a real nice kid, pretty, big smile, sunny disposition, smart as hell, and unlike most of the empty-headed broads her age, a good time to be around.

She was a decent woman, a good mask, almost like his friend as much as she was his girl.

Not that anybody cared.

They looked at her, and they saw a piece of human garbage.

The Comedian knew from human garbage; the kid wasn't even close.

And Eddie wasn't buying that whole "wildly degenerate" thing, either.

Wildly degenerate were the crazy broads who spent money on replicas of female mask costumes and put them on while he was lying unsuspectingly in their beds and then came out of the bathroom with a boxful of what looked like medieval torture devices from the middle ages, wanting him to beat them up real good or some shit like that before he put it to them.

A kid who buys superhero fuckbooks to get off on and pets her pussy a lot in-between screwing groupies who panted after her and a couple guys from the old neighbourhood and Logan on Wednesdays, well, the kid was what they used to call a real hot number, maybe hotter than a lot of broads, but what she did was pretty normal.

Most guys wouldn't know that, because, unlike Eddie, most guys weren't in a position to know how horny women really were.

That said, the kid was a real volcano, a regular little red devil straight out of the hottest lava pits of hell. She was horny, sardonic, violent, and crazy as a shithouse rat, every bit as much of a killer with a grin on her lips and a heart as black as midnight in a coal mine as he was, and she did the dirty work for the same reason he did; because somebody had to and most people, even masks, were too chickenshit to stand up and do what really had to be done.

And when he was gone, she was probably erupting all over somebody else.

Probably Shellhead.

The other men she ran with, Logan, Joe Mac, the occasional groupie, that didn't bother him, but Shellhead?

That he didn't like.

Sure, he knew who it was she really wanted, but he knew what Shellhead really wanted and that was to knock Eddie out of his position as Cock of the Walk.

Eddie wasn't going to stand for that.

He burned for that kid like he hadn't burned for any broad since Sally.

Maybe more than he burned for Sally.

Sally was never his.

But they gave that kid to him, threw her at him, she was his problem, his responsibility, all his, lock, stock and two smoking barrels.

They called her Napalm because it burns everything down.

The kid thought that was funny, but Eddie didn't.

Assholes who called her that they never saw napalm in action.

But the kid had almost burned him down in that alley; she was mad, bad, and dangerous to know.

She was bad like the broads in the movies they made just after the war, bad like Jesse James, she could kill a man and laugh at him while he was dying, laugh at him for being fool enough to think that even if he was a lowlife criminal murdering scumbag, he was badder than she was.

Eddie was 25 years older than the kid, and he knew better from the minute he met her than to touch her, but in the end, he couldn't keep away from her. He knew what a bad idea it would be for the hellfire in him to mix with the hellfire in her, but Eddie did it anyway; he found he didn't care, and he also found he like it.

A lot.

Besides, it was nice to have a regular girl, again, he hadn't had it like that since Sophie after the war. Him and the kid got along good, she wasn't a pain in the ass the way a lot of broads were, you could actually fucking talk to her, go out, have a few laughs.

She had a fucking brain in her head.

Eddie didn't give a fuck what anybody had to say, he wasn't giving up the kid for anything.

Him and the kid, they deserved a little fucking happiness, and nobody was gonna take it from them.

Yeah, Eddie, you let her get to you.

If he knew he couldn't trust her, he could have thrown her back to Bruce and forgotten about her, but he knew he could trust her, that was the problem.

Eddie shook his head, to shake the thoughts off of it, and put on the radio.

Found a decent song, turned up the volume.

Pushed in the lighter.

"Fuck it. Everybody's got to go, sometime."

**II: Edie**

Edie didn't know why it struck her that way, but seeing Liv Napier at the supermarket, pushing a shopping cart was just about the funniest thing in the world.

For one thing, Liv was like her Paulie, she had a uniform.

It was all a variation on her Levis and undershirt.

Something Edie knew all about, because, with Liv not having a mother, Edie went ahead and bought Liv's clothes, too, with Bruce Wayne's money.

From Sears.

Levi's dungarees, bootcut, Waist, 36, Inseam 28. Also, plaid flannel shirts. Two with quilted lining. Neck, 17 inches, size men's medium/large, short length. She wore the jeans slung low, below her belly button, and, at the Army Surplus Store, men's XL-short OD undershirts and L boxers.

Whatever else Liv had that she picked up at thrift shops, head shops and garbage picking, that was the staple of her wardrobe.

And, for summertime, she'd get a pair of those Levis that were worn out and cut them off.

There she was, at the Associated supermarket one subway stop away from Edie's home, the place where she always shopped.

Technically, Liv lived out on Long Island, and but she had grown up along the waterfront, and was a Brooklyn girl in her heart.

Spent most of her time in the old neighbourhood.

Her unofficial HQ was Marcano's Pizzeria in Bensonhurst, which was owned by Edie's sister Ruthie's husband, Dominic "Boots" Marcano.

Hell, Liv was already practically a member of the family.

If Eddie ever knocked her up, she'd turn around and tell him they were buying a house in the old neighbourhood before he could say it, himself.

Edie swallowed her laughter, looking at the big, bad Harlequin, with her heavily tattooed street-muscled arms, in her waist-length pigtails and cutoffs, an old pair of Keds and an undershirt, examining the heads of lettuce and scowling.

Like an old lady.

Seeing her holding a head of lettuce in either of her heavily tattooed hands was hilarious.

"Oh, hiya, Edie. Look at this fuckin' lettuce. They want 35 cents a head for this shit? I mean, its prob'ly fifty in Manhattan, but, lookit this! Looks like a fuckin' donkey's balls. I'm gonna get some leaf lettuce."

Edie saw she had pistachios in her cart.

"You hate pistachios."

"I know. They're for Eddie. I was at his place, today, an', he ain't got shit. That's really lousy, yunno? He goes out and does that fuck Tricky Dick's fuckin' dirty work, an' when he gets home, all he's got is a half a box of corn flakes, an apple, a box of mac an' cheese that expired last month, an' a can of Bud. So, I figure I'll buy some shit, cook somethin'. Make myself useful on my night off."

Edie bit her lip, trying not to laugh, again.

"Go ahead an' laugh. I know, it's funny, a broad like me makin' dinner for a guy like Eddie when he gets back from fuckin' burnin' down a coca plantation an' killin' some Columbian drug lord military big man with a wooden spoon."

"And what did you do, this week, Liv? Take out a whole gang of Knot Tops with a spork from Kentucky Fried Chicken?"

They both laughed.

"Pretty much. Fried chicken. That's a good idea. I'll make fried chicken. Don't tell Paulie. He'll come over an' eat it all, an' stick around all night. He does that to me alla time! Even when I'm at home. I always gotta make extra for Pualie, he'll come allaa wya out to Long Island ta mooch offa , when I'm at Eddie's place, finally, Eddie hasta tell him, hey, Paulie, me an' Liv are goin' to bed and you ain't invited. Go the fuck home! I mean, it ain't like I don't wanna see Paulie, fuck, I see him alla time, but, yunno, my night off is my night off. He's always loved ta clog up my night off. I think he does it on purpose."

"Prob'ly. Speaking of Paulie, he's in here, somewhere. I brought him with me to carry the bags. I better go find him before he decides that we need four bags of Cheetos and six bags of Oreo's. I wish he'd quit smokin' all that reefer. He's eatin' us outa house an' home."

"Awww, he'll get over it. I wouldn't worry. It's only weed. But I gotta go. I got work ta , I'll seeya, round, Edie."

"Yeah, sooner rather 'n later, Liv."

**III: Eddie **

Still dressed in fatigues, with his costume in a duffel bag, and his pack on his back, Eddie walked in the front doors of his building, across the marble and deco lobby, stopping to talk to the super, a lanky, balding, broad shouldered man in grey coveralls, who was scrunched down on the floor beside one of the elevators, his long legs folded under him like a stork.

"That little bastard in 4006 put gum in the fuckin' works, again, Bert?" Eddie asked.

"Fucking little prick. If he was my kid, I'd smother him." Bert Milosevitch replied.

"You gonna put the air on, down here, ever? This place is supposed ta be air-conditioned."

"That fuckin' sand nigger who owns this joint, he's a lousy cheap prick! He didn't want me to put the AC on for the apartments until next month. He's not out there, frying on the pavement. This is supposed to be a luxury joint, not a walk-up in fuckin' Harlem. Ya look tired, Eddie. And ya missed a little of the blood on your boots."

"Yeah, that's the best part. I musta got 12 hours of sleep in a week an' a half. Out there in the fuckin' jungle, bustin' my ass. Now I gotta walk up a fuckin' shitload of steps to my fuckin' apartment, where I got a can of beer an' an apple. Sometimes, I wish I was still a hardhat. Or a truck driver. Like I usedta be. Life was a helluva lot simpler."

"If you see that little rat bastard kid from 4006, beat the shit out of his father for me, huh?"

"I'll t'row him down the steps."

Eddie hadn't been in a real gorgeous mood before, but after climbing fucking Mount Everest, he was really loaded for bear.

And where's my girl?

He kept asking himself that.

Oh, you were gone two whole weeks, Eddie. She's probably two blocks down at Shellhead's penthouse, having another Scotch and Coke and tellin' him a little to the left, that's' it, now ya got it.

But, when Eddie got to his front door, he saw light coming from under it, and when he unlocked the door, Paulie was parked on the couch, watching TV and eating a bag of Oreos, and the kid was in his kitchen, cooking up a storm.

"Hiya, Uncle Eddie."

"Hiya, Paulie. Seeya, Paulie."

"Can't I even stay for dinner?"

"Paulie, ya never just stay for dinner. I'll seeya at Grossmann's tomorrow night. I been gone two weeks and it wasn't no vacation. Get me?"

"Oh. Sure, Uncle Eddie, I getcha. Hey, Liv! I'm gonna split, now, Uncle Eddie's here. I'll seeya tomorrow."

"Okay, Paulie. Thanks for helpin' me. I'll save youse some chicken."

After Paulie left, Eddie went into the kitchen,

The kid was making fried chicken in one pan, and there was something in the oven.

He opened up the fridge, and it was stocked.

He got himself a beer, and cracked it, then grabbed a handful of the pistachios in the bowl on the kitchen table.

"Did Edie do this?"

"No, I did. See, I never hafta come home to nothin'. I'll be draggin' my ass down the street, thinkin', Jesus, what a weekend, but I know that whenever I go home, there'll be food and beer in the fridge, an' Pop will be there, an' Dick, an' if we're all beat enough, Alfred'll get up in the middle of the night and make us tea an sandwiches. Or somethin'. It's a real good feelin', knowin' ya got a home ta go to where somebody gives a shit about youse. An' I got to thinkin', it must be a real shit feelin'. Comin' back to an empty apartment after ya just blew up six heroin refineries in Cambodia and assassinated the local crazy drug king an' strong man with a shrimp fork. Or whatever. So, I figured I'd fill up the fridge, an' make youse some dinner. What the fuck, it's my night off."

"Kid, the next time some asshole tries ta tell me you're no good, I'll break his face. Ya really are a good girl."

"Don't let that get around, Eddie. It'll fuck up my reputation."

He went to put his costume away, and take a shower, and cram all his dirty, bloody clothes into the hamper.

Thinking about it, he realised, nobody had ever done anything like this for him besides his Ma, and his sisters.

"Just let 'em try to take my girl away from me. Like the kid says, kill 'em all and let the Devil sort 'em out in Hell."

As they were sitting down to eat, Paulie called from the pay phone across the street.

He missed the bus, it was too hot to wait for the next bus, he didn't want to be in rush hour on the subway, please, please, please, could he just have dinner and then he'd go?

So, back Paulie came, and he left after dinner, just like he promised, and Eddie took Liv right to bed, and not just because he was tired.

By the time they got done going hard at it, though, even the kid was tired.

She was groggy when he woke her up around eight.

"What? Is it tomorrow?"

"No, kid. It's tonight, it's only eight."

"Jesus, Eddie, I can't move."

"Yeah, well, that's what ya get, wearin' those cut off shorts, and bendin' over all night. C'mon, it's Thursday, ain't it?"

"Yeah."

"Then we're goin' to the movies. You always go to the drive-in on Thursday night. Even when you was a little kid. I know. I used ta take youse. I can't fuck up your schedule, you'll lose your mind."

"Eddie, Jesus, ya just came back from a two-week, one-man commando mission. Ya don't hafta take me to the drive in."

"Sure I do. You're my girl. C'mon, lets go."

"Okay, Eddie. I hope it's Westerns, tonight. Or somethin' with monsters in it. What about Paulie? He usedta go, too."

"Alright, we'll go get Paulie. He's probably sleepin' in one of the easy chairs in the lobby, now that Burt put the AC on, waitin' ta go to the movies."

Sure enough, when the elevator doors opened, there was Paulie, sacked out in an easy chair with an open comic book in his lap and his head hanging back, out like a light.

"Wake up, Paulie. We're goin' to the movies."

"I figured we was. Is Laurie comin'?"

"No. She still hates me?"

"Why?"

"Fucked if I know."

"Can I call her, anyway."

"Knock yourself out, kid."

Eddie was pretty goddamn surprised when Laurie showed up in a whoosh of air and a flash of blue light.

She clapped her hand over her mouth, reached into her purse for a bottle of Pepto-Bismol, and took a few slugs.

"Okay. I'm okay, now. What? Why are you all looking at me like that? Jon's busy. And I'm tired of going to the movies by myself!"

She winced, and took another slug of Pepto.

"I hate that fucking teleporting."

"We'll give youse a ride home, Lar. Alright, lets go, it ain't gettin' any earlier!" Eddie announced.

"I got a roach in my pocket. A few puffs is good for a bad stomach. You pretend to be sick, and I'll help youse over to the can. It's down that hall."

"Thanks, Paulie."

Eddie watched them go.

"What the fuck was that? Does Paulie really think I give a fuck if they smoke a roach in my car?"

"I dunno, Eddie. He's just tryna help."


End file.
